


Saint-Georges

by Madlyie



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Added tag: I thought there would be more fluff now there's angst, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bookstores, F/M, I have a weakness for Parnasse, M/M, Paris - Freeform, Pining, What else is new
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2018-08-17 01:50:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 39,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8125796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madlyie/pseuds/Madlyie
Summary: Combeferre owns a small but lovely bookshop in Saint-Georges, spends most of his time with his weird but lovable employee, his weird but lovable roommate or the rest of his weird but lovable friends. Courfeyrac is a world-famous actor who just happens to stumble into Combeferre's up until that point quite uneventful life.





	1. Chapter I.

**Author's Note:**

> So I was on vacation in Greece for three weeks and didn't take my laptop and THEN inspiration struck so I'm stuck on like about 130, probably more pages of Courferre. Which means that basically the story is almost completely finished but I still have to type the whole thing. So yeah, I don't know how regularly I will update because uni is starting up soon too but just so you know, it's all THERE.  
> Also if you think from the summary that this sounds like a Notting Hill AU, then yes. Yes, it is a Notting Hill AU. You don't need to know the movie for this but if you have some time on your hands and like typical, cheesy 90s comedies, it's actually pretty sweet.  
> Anyway, this is actually my first real long (and it's going to be long) Courferre-centric fic, so we'll see how that goes. Enjoy! ♥

 

 

***

 

Had someone asked Combeferre what kind of books were sold in the little, old-fashioned store, Quartier Saint-Georges, Paris, he would have probably not been able to think of an answer that could have described the countless occupants of the old, overcrowded shelves in one word.

‘A little bit of everything’ might have been the most accurate attempt even though he was sure most people would still be surprised then if they happened to stumble across a dictionary for Coptic next to a bunch of comic books from the nineties and ‘A Guide to the Fauna and Flora of the Virgin Islands’ and yet, he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

It wouldn’t have been the same without the dust settling on large tomes about the French Revolution or famous people of the 13th century in far down corners no one ever bothered to look in. It wouldn’t have been the same without Jehan smoking in the tiny back room slash kitchen slash bathroom and not without the rattling of the cash register because the drawer was a little crooked to the left.

Combeferre liked the calm, the quiet to read and think and dream, he liked the reliability of all those little things and life.

 

Jehan sitting next to him on a chair behind the counter closed the book they had been reading with a startingly loud sound in the silence of the empty bookshop.

“I’m going to make some tea.” 

Tea was usually Jehan's reaction to everything that happened, that or some séance later in the day with an abundance of candles and more tea. Combeferre didn't know what exactly had happened right then, boredom or a fleeting thought or simply the passing of time, but he had banned all things remotely candle-like from the bookshop after the disaster involving the four-volume edition of ‘War and Peace’.

They didn’t talk about it. But candles were strictly banned, much to Jehan’s charging, so tea it was.

“Would you get me a latte from the fridge too, please?” Combeferre asked and his question was met by one of Jehan’s eyebrows that looked clearly disappointed in him. He sighed. “Or, you know, just make me another of those ginger things, that would be great.“

“Sure!” Jehan beamed, eyebrow appearing satisfied, and scuttled off into the kitchen slash back room slash bathroom. The frayed seam of their turquoise and mustard yellow poncho swayed after them, almost on the floor, in time to the blue dyed tips of their curly red braid.

Combeferre had stopped trying to reason that it was actually July and too warm for both tea and ponchos but Jehan didn’t seem to have the same sensation of heat like ordinary human beings. But Jehan couldn’t be held to the standards of ordinary human beings most of the times, especially not when it came to either ponchos or tea.

Combeferre turned his attention back to his battered copy of ‘A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’ that had been a gift from Enjolras to Combeferre’s 14th birthday - along with a friendship bracelet consisting solely of red strings.

He pushed his glasses which always tended to take gravity a little more seriously than other things up his nose.

The door opened making the wind chime over it ring, a hand-crafted gift from Feuilly from his voluntary aid program in Honduras, and Combeferre looked up briefly.

Then back down to his book.

Then back up again.

Blinked. Once. Twice.

 

See, the point was, Combeferre wasn’t _completely_ unaware of the happenings of modern popular culture even though he preferred odd books to most Hollywood movies and the tiny café around the corner to the Starbucks around the other one. He knew most of the current pop songs, courtesy of Bahorel, and most of the current memes, courtesy of Grantaire. And if there was the same poster of one movie plastered all over the city, well, he certainly noticed. _Especially_ if the face on said poster was literally the most beautiful face Combeferre had ever seen even though he was surrounded by a shocking amount of good-looking people - even without the wonders of Photoshop - on a regular basis because somehow all of his friends seemed to have hit the genetic jackpot.

So yes, Combeferre was aware - in a sort of surreal, detached way - that the person stepping under Feuilly’s shell wind chime into the shop wearing sunglasses and a short sleeved hoodie - weather appropriate - was the same person that always made Combeferre take a seat by the window when he got his morning coffee to get a perfect view on the giant movie poster on an advertising column on the other side of the road.

Which in hindsight might have been a little pathetic.

 

The hood came off, setting free a cultivated mess of shiny dark curls and well, Combeferre supposed he was staring. And because staring was rude even if it was staring at one of the most famous movie stars in the _world_ who was probably very much used to being stared at, Combeferre cleared his throat and asked politely, “Can I help you?”

It did sound almost casual.

The man turned towards him with a little smile, crooked and charming, and with the same voice that made interviewers internationally swoon when saying things like, ‘You look lovely today’ or ‘Oh, just call me Courfeyrac’, answered, “Thank you, I’ll just have a look around.”

Combeferre nodded with a smile on his own because he didn’t think that anyone was immune to a smile from the other man’s face, not in movies or on posters and especially not the real thing.

He tried for a while to continue reading his book but quickly realized it was easier to give up pretending and watched from the corner of his eye as the man pulled a book from a high shelf. When he stretched his shirt rode up a little exposing a sliver of skin over the waistband of his shorts which was perhaps the reason why Combeferre realized quite late that the book was a small volume with a detailed pattern of what were either flowers or skulls on the cover.

He was never quite sure considering it was one of Jehan’s contributions found on some flea market.

Combeferre coughed pointedly.

The man turned around and even though his sunglasses were dark Combeferre felt eyes on him.

“I-,” he started, cleared his throat again. “Well, I really wouldn’t recommend that one.”

A perfect dark eyebrow rose over the rim of the glasses. Combeferre tried and failed not to let it make him feel like a skittish sixteen-year-old. He continued, “I mean that’s unless you enjoy well, death. And obscure references to what I’m pretty sure is necromancy.”

“Really?” Courfeyrac asked with a hint of amusement tugged into the corner of a smile and Combeferre thought about how weird it was talking to someone whose name you knew but who didn’t know yours.

Courfeyrac took off his sunglasses pushing them up between strands of curly hair and Combeferre was momentarily distracted by long dark lashes and freckle-dusted cheeks.  

Courfeyrac opened the book, read something, and immediately clapped the book shut again. “Woah.”

Combeferre nodded sympathetically. “Yeah.”

When Courfeyrac turned to him, fully, without the glasses and with undivided attention, the first thought crossing Combeferre’s mind was that he had never seen eyes in that particular shade of warm hazel green. The second was that the dimples were absolutely adorable, the third was blissful emptiness and more staring.

‘Alright, alright. I’ve learned my lesson, you win,’ Courfeyrac said with a small nod that was just a little bit too cheeky to pass as chastised. “So, what’d you recommend?”

Putting his book down Combeferre couldn’t help but feel a familiar excited thrill. He had always loved this part, finding a book, a perfect book, _the_ perfect book for someone. Running fingers over dusty spines, flipping through pages in the search of something that mattered, something that fit.

He rounded the counter already letting his eyes wander across the books lined up on the shelves.

“Well, it depends of course on what you’re looking for. Novels. Poetry. Adventure or drama ..,” he trailed off and pushed his glasses up his nose, thinking.

Courfeyrac stepped up next to him and Combeferre was surprised to notice that he was at least a whole foot smaller than him, if not more. Apparently he was that kind of person you only realized wasn’t that tall when you stood right next to them.

And then he said something that surprised Combeferre even more.

“Something simple,” he said. “Something nice.”

Combeferre glanced at Courfeyrac and saw him looking at the shelf, almost as if it had an answer to a question that Combeferre didn’t know. He looked away because he might have known Courfeyrac’s name, a couple of the movies he was in, that his mother was Puerto Rican and the colour of his eyes, but it still felt like a private moment that wasn’t meant to be interrupted by the judgement of a stranger.

Instead Combeferre stepped a little further down the aisle to the end of the shelf and pulled an unassuming paperback from its place where it looked towered and plain next to an unabridged version of Thomas Mann’s ‘Buddenbrooks’ in original German.

He turned back to Courfeyrac and handed him the book.

One of his eyebrows rose and this time it seemed more curious than amused.

“‘A Beautiful Life’,” Courfeyrac read the title, a simple font on the cover that was just a picture of a field of sunflowers. “What’s it about?”

Combeferre could have pointed out that he could just read the blurb on the back but he didn’t. He liked books probably just as much as talking about books.

He smiled. “It’s basically about these two people who fall in love with each other but they’re young and they want different things, different lives and so they don’t think much of it. They spent one night together before he goes off to college and she goes off to see the world and they just… go on. They live their lives, some things go wrong, some things don’t and they’re happy. All in all...,” he trailed off.

“And that’s the end?”

Combeferre couldn’t help but laugh. “No, it’s not but it would be bad marketing if I told you the end, wouldn’t it be? I mean-,” he stopped for a second for wide gesture around the tiny shop, “I’m a businessman.”

Courfeyrac’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “I see,” he said with a pointedly serious nod. “Does your business concept include letting people carry out books under their coats as well?”

Combeferre turned around just in time to see a familiar tall, slender figure disappear around the shelf at the end of the aisle. He hadn’t even noticed the door opening.

 

He sighed, heavily, and turned back to Courfeyrac.

 

“Excuse me for a second,” he said, on another obviously pained sigh. “I’ll be right back. You should read the first page, see if you like it. The first page is always important.”

Courfeyrac nodded, amusement and silent laughter still warm in his eyes making them even more bright and Combeferre turned around before he could make a fool of himself.

He thought he had been doing quite well so far on that front. He thought. He hoped. It was probably a good thing to get a little bit out of the exposure of that smile because it started being a bit hard to concentrate.

He stepped around the end of the aisle and casually leant against the shelf crossing his arms in front of his chest.

 

“Hey Parnasse.”

 

The tall man dressed completely, impeccably in black looked up.

“Oh hey,” Montparnasse said in a drawl that sounded both incredibly bored and incredibly casual. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Parnasse, you _are_ aware this is my bookshop, right?”

“Mmm,” was the reply as if that thought hadn’t occurred to him before. Or didn’t hold enough importance to bother about.

Combeferre sighed again with a patience that been cultivated over years of friendship with Enjolras who happened to be very excellent at method acting a stubborn three-year-old.

He said, “Put it back.”

“Put what back?”

“The book you got under your coat.”

“I don’t have a book under my coat.”

Combeferre raised an eyebrow at the obvious lump under Montparnasse’s black coat that hung otherwise perfectly fitting over his black v-neck and black skinny jeans.

Montparnasse held his gaze. “What if I did have a book under my coat?”

Combeferre had to admit it was quite admirable how much dignity the other man was able to muster up.

Even his eyes were black, no possible distinction between pupil and iris.

“Well,” Combeferre started calmly, “Let’s see. I would go back to the counter and you could either put the Nora Roberts back into the shelf or you don’t and I will tell everyone you know how much you enjoy cheesy romance novels targeting sad housewives in their late forties who are bored by their misogynistic husbands. Not that there’s anything wrong with that of course, you like what you like, no one would judge you for that.”

The slight hint of red that rose in Montparnasse’s pale cheeks was the only indicator that made it obvious what he thought of that idea and Combeferre wondered if he regretted forgoing the summer tan for the whole vampire-fresh-out-of-casket-aesthetic. He still - impressively - managed to keep his face perfectly passive though.

Not waiting for a response because he knew he would get none Combeferre leaned forward to pat Montparnasse’s shoulder encouragingly, pulling his hand away before he would get into the immediate danger of having his fingers broken, and returned to the other aisle in front of the counter where Courfeyrac stood with a wide, wide grin.

 

He had the book open on the first page but from the way he was obviously trying not to laugh he had probably caught at least some parts of the conversation.

 

“Friend of yours?” he asked and maybe he tried to sound casual but it came out too amused. Combeferre could only think that for an actor his expression was incredibly open, emotions playing without hindrance over his expressive features. But then again Combeferre hadn’t met many actors in their free time. Which didn’t mean he was still not helplessly charmed.

“Probably,” he admitted after a moment of thought even though the words ‘Montparnasse’ and ‘friend’ weren’t two that he would usually put in connection with one another. He shrugged. “He’s … around. Usually,” he said and silently added, ‘And crushing like mad on my employee,’ because he valued his life too much for taking the risk of Montparnasse overhearing.

Which was a very good decision because at the same moment Montparnasse stepped around the corner of the shelf, smoothly and elegant in his whole appearance confirming the fact that Combeferre’s world was a minefield of attractive people. He suppressed the urge to fiddle with the hem of his cardigan.

“Excuse me,” Montparnasse practically purred after his eyes fell on Courfeyrac. “Would you mind giving me an autograph?”

Somehow he managed to pull off looking like an actual Hollywood diva more than Courfeyrac with his dimpled smile and warm eyes.

“Sure thing,” Courfeyrac said easily and when Montparnasse handed him what looked like letter paper and a calligraphy pen - honestly, Combeferre didn’t get the guy sometimes - asked, “What’s your name?”

“Montparnasse.”

Courfeyrac began writing something down and Combeferre tried not to stare too obviously at his hands which were, like the rest of him, absolutely beautiful which was, as life generally happened to be, absolutely unfair.

Montparnasse caught his gaze and smirked. Combeferre refused to blush even when Courfeyrac quickly glanced at him and, obviously trying to stop himself from laughing, bit down onto his lip.  

Life was unfair, Combeferre thought at the same time as, life was beautiful.

“What are you writing?” Montparnasse inquired politely as Courfeyrac scribbled something down that was certainly longer than a signature and finished with an elaborate swipe of the pen.

He tipped the tip of the pen at the bottom of the piece of paper. “Well, here's my name. And above it says, ‘Dear Montparnasse - you belong in jail.’”

Combeferre barely managed to cover a laugh with a cough.

“Sweet,” Montparnasse commented, clearly pleased. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Courfeyrac said and gave back pen and paper. Montparnasse bowed as he took it which would have looked ridiculous had it been anyone else doing so but it wasn’t so it passed as another effortlessly elegant, more than slightly eccentric Montparnasse thing. He tipped an imaginary top hat at Combeferre and with a last look between the two of them - that again made Combeferre feel like he was supposed to be blushing - disappeared through the front door.

Shortly before the door fell shut though Montparnasse turned around again, head poking around the door into the shop.

There was a slightly unsure line to his mouth suddenly that looked adorably out of place. Adorable was also not a word Combeferre usually put in connection with Montparnasse.

“Combeferre, did Jehan-, I mean, did Prouvaire say…,” he trailed off.

Combeferre raised an eyebrow.

“Nevermind,” Montparnasse murmured and then he was out of the door and gone, holding on the remaining shreds of his dignity.

 

Feuilly’s wind chime sounded over the door in the momentary silence.

 

Combeferre and Courfeyrac looked at each other until he couldn’t help but laugh at the same time Courfeyrac chuckled and it was bright and beautiful and breathtaking like the rest of him.

“Quite the character, is he?” Courfeyrac smiled and Combeferre only shook his head in what he knew had to be a way too fond execution of the gesture. “You could say that.”

Courfeyrac laughed again, then he stepped up to the counter and put down the book Combeferre had chosen for him.

“I’ll take this one,” he said and Combeferre was unable not to smile which he hoped didn’t look _completely_ besotted.

“Good choice.”

Courfeyrac grinned. “Modest much?”

Combeferre laughed again. It felt surprisingly easy to laugh, surprisingly simple, as if the world had somehow increased its potential for happiness and joy. “You’re joking now but really, you’ll see.”

When Courfeyrac didn’t contradict that and only smiled Combeferre tried to mesmerize it. Courfeyrac watched him as he put the book into an eco-friendly recycling paper bag - credits to Jehan.

As Combeferre handed the bag to Courfeyrac their fingers brushed for what felt like the longest and most surreal second of Combeferre’s life up until this point. A second of uttermost excitement as well as an all-compassing melancholy as if it was already over before it had begun. For the second he wished he had been a poet, or an artist, or simply a person with a camera to capture the moment in any way but a short-lived, fading, fading memory to remember it again, again and once more.

“Thank you,” Courfeyrac said and if the world hadn’t already tilted Combeferre might not have thought the hitch in the other man’s breathing was only wishful thinking. “I’m looking forward to it.”

And with another smile over his shoulder he walked away, out of the store and Combeferre’s life.

 

Jehan came back from the kitchen slash bathroom slash backroom, one steaming cup in each of their hands.

“One ginger-rooibos-cinnamon tea for my most favourite boss,” they grinned and held out one cup.

Combeferre took it mechanically, managing a “Thank you,” before staring into the brownish mixture in the cup that smelled like either freshly baked cake or wet soil. Maybe both.

“Guess who was just in here,” he said after a moment that might have been a couple of seconds or a couple of minutes. He said it because it felt like the thing to say after meeting a world-famous movie star, and then he regretted it immediately because it didn’t feel like that had been what had happened at all. Not some gorgeously polished ideal but a beautiful, charming man with the brightest of smiles on his face.

Or maybe a bit of both.

Jehan didn’t seem aware of his inner turmoil or they were and just didn’t mention it to let him have some time to process it on his own at first.

“Who?” they asked and immediately answered their own question. “Parnasse, right? Did he try to steal one of the Nora Roberts again?”

“Yeah,” Combeferre said, relieved. “Yeah, that.”

Jehan didn’t point out that it was obviously not what he had meant to say.

Instead they shook their head, smiling.

“That boy,” Jehan said and Combeferre didn’t point out the fondness in their voice.

They drank their tea in comfortable silence except for Combeferre’s thoughts and Jehan’s quiet humming.

 

***

 

“Quick question: How much of my head would I be allowed to keep if I started dating let’s say, a really handsome, funny and all around absolutely amazing guy who happens to own an incredibly sweet little bookstore in Saint-Georges?” Courfeyrac chirped into the phone trying to keep his voice levelled and failing miserably.

Really, sometimes he wondered how anyone could look at him and think he was a good actor but for once the thought didn’t overly perturb him.

“Uh,” said Marius in response which was at the time very unhelpful and very Marius. Then, “I don’t know?” Which wasn’t much of an improvement. “But I think your head is fine where it is? Don’t you?”

“Marius, bless your beautiful, innocent soul. Now give me Cosette.”

“Okay,” said Marius what sounded at the same time very confused and very Marius. There was a little rustling at the other end of the line then Cosette’s voice as Marius handed over the phone.

“Yes?”

“Hello my most favourite, capable, beloved PR-manager. How are you? Good? Amazing. Anyway, quick question. How much of my head would I be allowed to keep if I started dating an absolutely adorable guy who owns a lovely little bookshop in Saint-Georges and who might or might not, tendency to might, be the man of every single one of my dreams?”

 

There was a long pause.

 

Courfeyrac waited and fiddled with the paper bag that sat next to him on the bench which was an ancient, secluded thing, as secluded as it could get in the middle of tourist season in Paris. Which was actually very secluded because Courfeyrac knew the city like the back of his hand and on that particular day it seemed just as light and lovely as he remembered from his fondest childhood memories.

“I don’t know about your head,” Cosette eventually said. “But I would worry about your heart.”

Courfeyrac’s fingers stilled.

“You know what, I liked Marius’s answer a whole lot better, could you give the phone back to him?”

“Courfeyrac.” It was a rebuke on a sigh sounding more gentle than anything else but it still made Courfeyrac’s euphoria dissolve into nothing at all.

He sagged back into the bench that creaked warningly but he ignored it.

“I know,” he said. Because he did.

Relationships were messy. Relationships when you were famous were messier and relationships where only one of the parties involved was famous were not messiest but not even part of the measurable scale of messy anymore. Even if that other person was a beautiful, soft-spoken bookseller with the most gentle brown eyes who you hadn’t even spent five minutes of your life with.

 

“Just… indulge me? For a second?”

 

Cosette sighed but didn’t protest. “It would be a publicity debacle even though probably not a _disaster._ Per se. It wouldn’t be surprising if you were dating a man since you’re out and all but a - in that sense - ‘normal’ person? The press would eat that up like hyenas until they dug out every last detail about him, and about you. Your motifs, your feelings, future. It would be draining for everyone involved, possibly deterrent for employers because of the increase of most likely very invasive media attention, not to speak of the private difficulties and -”

“Okay,” Courfeyrac interrupted her. He sighed heavily. “Okay. I guess… I needed to hear that. Thank you.”

Another short silence passed before Cosette gently said, “I’m sorry.” Because she knew him enough to know it was also what he needed to hear.

“It’s alright,” he said anyway, “I just… got carried away there for a second.”

It was a feeble explanation, Courfeyrac knew that, but nonetheless a quite plausible one. He got excited, a lot and quickly, about a thing, a person, a place and mostly the excitement was over just as quickly as it had come turning into a sweet sensation of sensible admiration instead. That was how things went, usually.

He realized he was still holding on to the paper bag. He let go of it and started fiddling with the hem of his gray, short-sleeved hoodie instead.

He didn’t even like gray.

He hadn’t planned to go into the bookshop. He didn’t make a habit of planning his time off, the whole rest of his life being planned out enough as it was, and the small store had simply looked nice. Calm and unassuming. Just _there_ , for people who looked a little closer. Courfeyrac hadn’t planned to go inside but he had. He hadn’t planned to do more than look around a little, to not draw attention to himself, but he had. He hadn’t planned to meet an absolutely beautiful guy with a quiet laugh that made his heart skip a beat and his knees go weak, who looked at him like he understood him, not like he knew him like the rest of the world. But he had.

Combeferre, as the surprisingly well-dressed thief had called him, and Courfeyrac wondered if it would have been easier to forget the encounter if he hadn't known his name.

“I’m sorry,” Cosette said again because it was what Courfeyrac needed to hear.

 

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac said and thought, ‘Me too.’

 

“Hey, what if I got you a date with Jake Gyllenhaal instead?”

Courfeyrac smiled more because of how she was trying to cheer him up than at the prospect of a date with anyone at the moment. Or maybe it was anyone _else._

He decided to take the bait if only to make her worry less.

“Sounds great, but I didn’t know Jake Gyllenhaal was into guys?”

“No one knows anything about Jake Gyllenhaal, Courfeyrac.”

“Touché.”

He knew from the pause at the other end of the line that Cosette didn’t buy his faked nonchalance which really, was a bit embarrassing, he was an _actor_ for god’s sake.

“Are you going to be alright?” She asked. “Marius and I can change our plans and come over if you need us?”

Courfeyrac’s heart filled with an immeasurable fondness and gratitude.

“Thank you, but I’m fine. Really. We’re in Paris, you haven’t seen your dad in ages. Have dinner. Catch up. Hold Marius’s hand or he’ll run away screaming.”

Cosette chuckled softly, amused but she was still serious. “I’ll keep that in mind. But you know you can always join us when you feel like it.” It sounded like she meant, ‘If you need to.’ “Papa would love to see you again too.”

“I know but honestly, I’m fine. Say hello to him from me though, will you?”

There was a silence again, as if she was contemplating saying something else but eventually only settled on, “Of course.”

“Thank you,” Courfeyrac said, “Both of you.”

And Cosette said, “Always.”

When she had hung up Courfeyrac let out another sigh and felt ridiculous.

Really, who was he to complain about anything at all? He had had more luck than he could have ever imagined, no worries about money, future and he had people who loved him for all that and people who loved him beside all that. It shouldn’t feel like he was missing something. He should have been content. Grateful.

 

And still.

 

Still he couldn’t stop thinking about the bookshop, about Combeferre and his smile and the understanding in his eyes when Courfeyrac had answered ‘Something simple,’ to the question of what he was looking for. Something simple, like walking around on a summer day without his shoulders hunched up and hood pulled over his head. Something simple like living in Paris for more than a couple of weeks a year, only between filming and press-tour and whatnot. Something simple. Like asking a guy that was kind and interesting and nice-looking out on a date.

He sighed again and the sigh turned into a huff, half breath, half laugh when he shook his head and chided himself for being a melodramatic, ungrateful idiot.

Courfeyrac pulled the book from the paper bag. He hadn’t read the first page, back in the bookshop, like Combeferre had suggested because he had trusted his judgement as well as the nice, simple picture on the cover, sunflowers under a blue sky.

He flicked open the first page, leant back and began to read.

_‘They met on a slow and sticky Saturday afternoon in the middle of July._

_The important thing was neither the humid heat of the summer nor the calm and unpressured feel of the concluding week. All that mattered was, they met._

_Meeting, happening to come into the presence or company of someone, making the acquaintance of someone for the very first time. Meeting, something joining, touching. Meeting, something fulfils, satisfies._

_They met.’_

 

***

 

 


	2. Chapter II.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein some coffee gets spilled, as well as some truths and Grantaire is a terrible roommate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, what the hell, thank you all so much for the nice comments and kuddos and support, oh my god, you're all so amazing?!? ♥ Secondly... enjoy the chapter!

 

 

 

***

 

Another wind chime sounded when Combeferre pushed open the door to the café and was immediately wrapped in the smell of coffee, cinnamon and welcomeness.

“Hey Feuilly,” he greeted the man behind the counter who smiled at the sight of Combeferre, a smile of dancing freckles and warmth.

“Hey there.” Feuilly waved at him with the dishtowel he was holding in his hand.

“What’s it today?” he asked as Combeferre practically fell onto a chair next to the counter because the short walk from the bookshop to the café kind of felt like a marathon in the summer heat even though the time was already heading towards evening and he still had to get home - which was literally just across the road. But still.

Also he didn’t think he had yet recovered from the encounter a couple of hours earlier because, well. He hadn’t really stopped thinking about it.

At all.

He had managed to read exactly two more pages of ‘A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy' after Courfeyrac had left and then had given up trying in favour of staring at the empty space on the shelf where the book had stood that Combeferre had chosen for Courfeyrac. Also the smile he had been given in return, how it had made green eyes all warm and bright and -

Right.

“Just give me something with ice in it,” he sighed and Feuilly raised an eyebrow at him, the same colour as his messy auburn hair that looked like it couldn’t decide whether to curl or not and just settled on totally pulling off both. “Oh and also can you tell your brother to stop trying to steal things from my bookshop?”

The raised eyebrow lowered into a frown full of suffering combined with a matching sigh.

“Foster brother,” Feuilly corrected which he only ever did when he was annoyed and then turned a little to start on what Combeferre hoped was going to be something cold and with caffeine.

But because Feuilly was Feuilly and because in the same way that people couldn’t stay annoyed with him for a long time, Feuilly couldn’t stay annoyed with people, his expression quickly turned from irritated to resigned amusement.

“Did he try to get one of the Nora Roberts again?”

Combeferre bit down a smile. “Yes. And if he keeps going at it like that I won’t know what to give  him for Christmas anymore.”

“You think there’s a _lack_ of cheesy romance novels in the world?”

Combeferre pretended to contemplate the question for a moment. Then he said, very seriously, “For people like Parnasse? Yes.”

Feuilly burst out into laughter. He had a laugh that made it impossible not to laugh along with him. It was neither loud nor particularly animated, just simple, forward and warm. Incredibly infectious.

“Do you think he reads them because he thinks they’ll help him to woo Jehan?” he asked around another laugh and Combeferre cleared his throat before answering with a grande shake of his head. “I hope not. I have a perfectly good guide on poisonous flower arrangements stored in the back for that occasion. Not that I think it'll help a lot though.”

Feuilly shrugged with the hint of a laugh still on his lips. “If he stops pretending he doesn’t give a shit it might.”

Combeferre huffed. “Yes, but it’s _Parnasse_ we’re talking about here.”

“Optimism,” Feuilly said earnestly and it wasn’t a suggestion but a gentle yet firm reminder of the goodness of things that seemingly everyone else seemed to forget from time to time.

Combeferre sometimes wondered how Feuilly could go from a lightly smiling guy in his mid-twenties to a gently smiling, ageless, endless source of wisdom in the matter of a single word, and back again in the blink of an eye.

“Okay,” Combeferre said and Feuilly, satisfied, put a paper cup in front of him with an encouraging nod.

“Here.”

“Thanks.”

Combeferre didn’t know exactly what was in the cup but it tasted like caramel, espresso and cold which was good with him. He made an appreciative noise and eventually gathered enough enthusiasm to slip off his chair. “Well, I've got to get going then. I have a date with an unabridged Jules Verne and self-pity.”

“Hot,” Feuilly commented dryly, eyebrow back up again. Then, “You spend too much time with Grantaire.”

“Well,” Combeferre considered that for a moment, then shrugged. “He _is_ my roommate so yes, probably.”

He waved his goodbye and turned to the door while Feuilly called after him, “Oh, then tell your roommate to stop calling me for personal coffee deliveries at 3am or I’ll tell Bahorel to kick him into next fucking Sunday!”

“Will do!” Combeferre called over his shoulder, still smiling to himself for once not because of green eyes and a bright smile.

And then, when he closed the door and headed around the corner, he ran straight into someone about a good foot smaller than him and emptied the contents of his paper cup all over a short-sleeved gray hoodie.

 

***

 

“Oh Jesus,” Courfeyrac exclaimed when he turned around a corner and ran straight into someone about a foot taller than him and got the content of a paper cup emptied all over his short-sleeved gray hoodie.

His first thought was that he didn’t like that stupid colour anyway.

His second thought was that ‘Oh Jesus’ didn’t quite cut it but his breath got stuck in his throat that didn’t cooperate with his wish for more cursing when he realized that the foot-taller coffee-smelling-liquid-spiller was beautiful, funny, understanding, gorgeous bookshop guy - Combeferre.

Combeferre, his brain settled on eventually, which included all of the former.

“Oh my god,“ Combeferre was saying with wide brown eyes that when they met Courfeyrac’s widened a little more. "I'm so sorry -"

He looked a little close to panicking so Courfeyrac cut in, effectively stopping him from talking. “Please, don’t worry. It’s… well, not fine _per se_ because, you know, I’m kind of drenched in coffee… or whatever this is, but hey, at least it’s cold. I’m so not going to complain about that what with the weather today, honestly!”

 

Alright, maybe someone should try and stop _Courfeyrac_ from talking.

 

Combeferre blinked, Courfeyrac blinked back.

Then a small, soft smile tugged at the corner of the other man’s mouth and the reason why Courfeyrac had a little trouble breathing became a quite different one other than just surprise.

“Alright,” Combeferre said and Courfeyrac wondered if it was weird to talk to someone whose name you knew but who didn’t know yours but then again, Combeferre probably knew his name. He wondered if that made it even more, or less weird. “But really, I’m sorry, I didn’t look where I was going.”

“Head in the clouds, huh?” Courfeyrac chirped and tried not to wince because honestly, 'Head in the clouds', what the hell was he thinking? He took a deep breath to calm down which wasn’t easy when Combeferre smiled a little wider.

“Metaphorically,” he replied and it sounded amused like Courfeyrac had just made a joke worth smiling over. Then he looked down again, eyes catching on the stain on Courfeyrac’s hoodie and grimaced a little. “I feel really bad though. I live just across the street if you, I don’t know, wanted to get cleaned up or something?”

His first thought was, 'Yes.'

His second thought was about Cosette telling him to get back to the hotel early because he had a press conference in the morning.

“How far is right across the street?” The question was more out of a sense of duty because the 'Yes' was still resounding enthusiastically in his mind.

“Just over there.” Combeferre pointed at a house that was - literally - right across the street, an old multi-story building, light brown, brazen balconies, that fit right into the picturesque harmony of the street effortlessly conveying a distinctly Parisian atmosphere that maybe only existed in Courfeyrac’s head. He always remembered most how much he missed the city when he was there.

He looked back at Combeferre smiling at the same time encouragingly and nervous. When he started worrying his bottom lip between his teeth Courfeyrac forcefully snapped out of it.

“You know what, okay. Thanks, that would be great.”

Combeferre looked surprised for a moment like he hadn’t really expected Courfeyrac to agree but then he simply nodded and started leading the way. He formerly introduced himself. Courfeyrac did the same and Combeferre didn’t pretend not to know his name but also made no comment about already knowing it, merely nodded in acknowledgement, for which Courfeyrac was grateful.

They crossed the street, Courfeyrac made sure the sunglasses were firmly on, hood pulled down -hated every second of it - and Combeferre opened the front door of the house with a key that hung on a ring next to a pendant that looked like it had once functioned as a wristband until it had gotten too small, braided completely out of red strings.

“I’m afraid it’s a mess in there." On their way through the house floor Combeferre started apologizing again, a little self-deprecating smile on his lips. "I could probably blame it on my roommate since he shouldn’t be here yet but if we’re being honest… well.”

He pushed the door open and waved for Courfeyrac to step inside with something that was almost a little bow and absolutely adorable.

 

Admittedly, it _was_ a mess. Truly. But it was a mess that made the whole apartment seem utterly _lived_ in.

 

There were pictures in all sizes covering most of the space on the walls of the wide room that was at once living room, hallway and kitchen. Some of the pictures were photographs of people, others only sketches or framed postcards. A huge impressive canvas hung over the old-fashioned sofa. It was covered by vibrant splashes of paint that looked for a moment like they spelled out the words ‘Fuck off’ but then were just colours again, red and yellow and gold. A post-it note stuck next to it on the wall. It offered ‘Enjolras’ as only explanation which wasn’t really helpful in Courfeyrac’s case but he had never really gotten the whole modern art thing.

Books were strewn all over the place, under coffee mugs and piled up on the floor next to an empty pizza box. The curtains were stitched together from an assortment of fabrics that all resurfaced in the abundance of pillows on the sofa. The light of the evening shone softly through the window illuminating lazily dancing particles of dust.

 

“It’s…,” Courfeyrac started without knowing how to find words for how much he loved it and how much his chest ached at the sight - for what he wasn’t quite sure but it felt a lot like home.

“Lovely,” he settled on eventually, swallowing around the lump lodged in his throat with a friendly, polite smile.

 

“Lovely?” Combeferre chuckled and closed the door behind them throwing the keys onto a sideboard that looked a hundred years old and possibly as many kilograms heavy. His eyes glided along the room as if he was trying to imagine what it looked like for someone seeing it for the first time. "Alright, I'll take that."

They stood for a moment, silent, until Combeferre added, “The bathroom’s the second door on the left.”

For a moment Courfeyrac was confused by the seemingly random statement, then he remembered that right, he was halfway drenched in coffee-smelling liquid. He had kind of forgotten about that.

He nodded his thank you and headed into the direction pointed, past more pictures and shelf-covered walls. In the bathroom he was greeted by a rainbow-coloured, possibly self-knitted rug and a shower curtain that he thought for a second was made of water-repellent tablecloth and then was sure was made of water-repellent tablecloth. Courfeyrac didn’t think it was possible to be charmed by a shower curtain made of tablecloth but he was willing to admit that he might have been wrong.

On the windowsill sat a large bowl with a lazily drifting goldfish in it that didn’t seem particularly interested in his sudden appearance which was always a nice diversion from the norm.

Courfeyrac saluted the goldfish with two fingers - the goldfish didn’t return the gesture of the well-meaning introduction - and stepped in front of the mirror over the sink to survey the damage inflicted on his hoodie.

The stain was light brown, wet and very sticky and smelled like coffee. Courfeyrac contemplated trying to wash it out somehow but quickly deemed that a useless endeavour and shrugged out of the hoodie completely. The green shirt with little pineapples all over it underneath wasn’t exactly inconspicuous but Courfeyrac only had to make it back to the hotel and he immediately felt better, more like himself. He expertly mussed his hair a little so that it looked perfectly messy again and banned his sunglasses into the paper bag that he was still carrying.

He smiled at himself in the mirror.

It looked decidedly too sappy. Oh god. 

“Calm down,” he told his image quiet but firm. “Say ‘thank you’ and leave, it does not matter how cute he is.'”

His reflection agreed sensibly but didn't seem happy about it.

 

The goldfish looked unimpressed.

 

Courfeyrac smiled again but this time it was simply polite, charmingly friendly. He folded the hoodie, slung it over his arm, grabbed the paper bag and stepped back out of the door.

He had the indistinct feeling that in the time he had been in the bathroom Combeferre had tried to put a bit of order to the mess in the apartment without much success because the mess seemed to feel quite comfortable.

He told himself there was nothing endearing about Combeferre making an effort anyway, so he only smiled. Polite. Friendly.

He also ignored Combeferre’s quick look up and down his body lingering slightly on the bit of Courfeyrac’s exposed collarbone. Or well, he pretended to be able to ignore it which he was, in fact, not. But he was good at pretending.

“Thank you,” he smiled. “Again.”

Combeferre, about a few feet away from him - a distance Courfeyrac also pretended not to be aware of - made a dismissive hand gesture. Courfeyrac pretended not to notice for the second time, after pulling that book from the shelf earlier, his long, elegant fingers.  “Oh no, it’s alright. I mean, I’m the one who spilled coffee all over you.”

Courfeyrac smiled a little more, his smile obviously not caring about pretence. Maybe he wasn’t as good at it as he had thought he was.

“Well, that’s true,” he said teasing and Combeferre a let out a laugh, a single one, quiet and simple, beautiful, and shrugged a little.

“Yeah, it is I guess. I suppose I did the best I could. Not with the coffee. Of course, not that. That wasn’t… one of my finest moments.”

“Of course,” Courfeyrac agreed with a chuckle and felt himself smile even more. Really, it was impossible not to. “But honestly, it’s fine, thank you for letting me use your bathroom.”

Combeferre looked at him, looked nervous for a moment, then determined, then nervous again but like he didn’t care about it. “Well,” he said, “You’re welcome. And also, if you don’t mind me saying, incredibly beautiful.”

 

Courfeyrac was sure his heart stopped momentarily, only then to start beating again furiously inside his chest, his pulse drumming fast, fast, hard in his veins pushing heat into his cheeks and making warmth uncurl in his stomach.

 

He had heard a lot of compliments over the course of being famous, over the course of his life, maybe more than anyone, no matter who, deserved to hear. A lot of them had been polite, a lot charming, flattering, some of them even honest and genuine. None of them had made him feel like this, like this simple truth offered, not elaborated, not exaggerated, just simple. Simple because it had been said only because Combeferre had wanted to say it.

Courfeyrac stared into his eyes, brown, soft and just incredibly, endlessly warm, and said nothing because his throat felt raw like he had laughed too long, or cried too long, he didn’t know.

Combeferre didn’t look disappointed by his lack of answer though. He waited patiently for a moment, a moment that was a chance for Courfeyrac to say something - he didn’t - and then he smiled a little, amused and gentle. “Just thought I’d take my one chance to say it.”

And Courfeyrac had _not_ expected someone wearing cardigans, someone working in a bookshop, someone who held himself, head a little ducked, shoulders raised, just a little tense, like he had no idea he was probably the most beautiful person in most of the rooms he walked into, could actually be that well, smooth.

Courfeyrac was surprised and thrilled. Delighted. Aware that he needed to say something. He wished he could say, ‘I’m sorry’ and said, “Thank you.”

Honest, a little bit choked. Reverent maybe because he didn’t have it in him to be a good actor just then. He didn’t have it in him to be an actor at all, just then.

Combeferre smiled, a warm smile, a heartbreak smile, and said, “My pleasure.”

He held out his hand to Courfeyrac. “It was very nice to meet you. Surreal, I admit. But nice.”

Courfeyrac didn’t think he could have agreed to anything more wholeheartedly. So he replied, “Likewise,” with a smile that might have been a little shaky and he took Combeferre’s offered hand in his.

 

He didn’t make a move to shake it.

Neither did Combeferre.

 

They stood in the hallway and for the duration of a handshake just held on to each other. Just hands. Fingers. Skin. Two pulses beating next to each other a little too fast to pass as ordinary in a moment that was anything but.

Courfeyrac swallowed and let go of Combeferre’s hand. He nodded, Combeferre smiled. He opened the door and Courfeyrac stepped outside. He smiled, Combeferre nodded and then the door fell shut with the silent sound of missed potential.

Courfeyrac breathed out.

He noticed how he was still holding on to the paper bag with the book in it so hard the paper crinkled under his fingers so much it almost ripped apart.

Slowly he unclenched his muscles, released another breath.

His mind felt empty. Very calm like the world was spinning a little more slowly giving him a moment to pause and reflect. Only the point was, Courfeyrac was not a person to stand back, behind and contemplate. He didn’t like standstill, he didn’t like spending time thinking about if’s and when’s and maybe’s and realized that lately, or perhaps much longer, he had been doing quite a lot of exactly that.

More than a lot. Enough.

He took a deep breath.

Fuck it.

 

The world started spinning again.

 

***

 

Combeferre closed the door and followed up on the action with a thought on how to possibly convince the earth to open up and swallow him whole.

Or he could drown himself. Probably in embarrassment, also an option quite tempting.

“‘Surreal but nice?’ What the hell were you thinking?” he murmured and alright, now he was already talking to himself, maybe he could just pledge insanity.

He had thought he had had the situation pretty much handled, pretty well even. He hadn’t stumbled over his words - not a lot - and he hadn’t blushed - not enough that his complexion wouldn’t have been able to cover it up.

Really. It hadn’t been _bad_ for spilling his coffee - or whatever - all over a really nice and absolutely beautiful person and then having said really nice and beautiful person in his apartment. Well, his and Grantaire’s apartment actually. Which was not the point.

 

He had kind of forgotten what the point was while staring at the door wondering if it would be a suitable surface for bashing his head in.

 

The door responded with a judgemental silence, and then with a forceful knock.

Which was kind of unexpected.

Combeferre looked at the door. The door looked back.

Then he reached out and opened.

 

Courfeyrac stood on the other side like a dream in a t-shirt with pineapples on it.

 

Combeferre blinked, a millisecond of darkness, closed eyes. When he opened his eyes Courfeyrac was still there. Because it felt like an impolite thing to take another second to convince himself time and space were real and right, Combeferre said, “Oh?”

And because that also felt impolite and also the ground hadn’t yet agreed to the swallowing up part, he added, “Did you forget something?”

“Well,” Courfeyrac started, swallowed and stopped. He looked like he was about to say something else, lips slightly parted for words to pass over them, or maybe just breath because he didn’t say anything else. Instead his eyes which Combeferre hadn’t noticed had been fixed on him only until they left his face blinked to the left, to the right and then to the inside of the apartment.

Combeferre understood and stepped back enough to let Courfeyrac back into the flat.

 

The door fell shut with the unmistakable sound of potential.

 

Combeferre didn’t say anything and waited, partly because he still wasn’t a hundred percent sure he knew what was happening and partly because he didn’t know what to say anyway but silence had never been as much a refuge for him as patience for others to find better words than him.

Courfeyrac ran a hand through his curls, his smile a little crooked and if Combeferre hadn’t known better he would have interpreted it as nervousness. But he tried to shove the thought away because it only made _him_ more nervous. He didn’t know why but he suspected the undeniable, inexplicable tension all around, in the air and the space between them.

Courfeyrac bit down onto his lip, released it. It was a little bit more red than before.

“I started the book,” he eventually said. Not said. Basically blurted out like he had been looking for something to say as Combeferre waited for him to do so.

“Oh?” Combeferre asked. Not asked. Blurted out.

Courfeyrac ran a hand through his hair again, letting it linger a little longer this time, tugging at the curls. Combeferre didn’t know if the feeling of awe at the beauty of those fingers running through dark strands of hair was stronger or the jealousy because it weren’t his own.

The air felt like it was humming.

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac dropped his hand and smiled another smile, absentminded and lovely. “It’s really beautiful.”

For a moment Combeferre stood on solid ground, solid enough to smile genuinely back. “I’m glad you think so.”

“Me too,” Courfeyrac said.

And then he took a step towards Combeferre, two and three, and the ground under his feet vanished for a feeling like standing on something up high, high and high. His stomach dropping, skin tingling. Breath hitching.

Courfeyrac reached out and softly placed a hand on the side of Combeferre’s neck. He understood it for what it was. Time to lean back. Combeferre didn’t.

He leaned in, eyes on Courfeyrac’s, hazel green, flecks of amber, yellow, until they closed and Combeferre closed his.

 

Courfeyrac had to stand up on his tiptoes, one hand braced on Combeferre’s neck, the other on his chest with the paper bag trapped between them, and he still stumbled forward, a step, a little thing closer even, closer still, when their lips met.

 

Combeferre's hands intuitively reached for Courfeyrac's waist steadying him. 

There was a moment of perfect stillness and then Courfeyrac sighed against Combeferre’s lips and tilted his head into a proper kiss that would have been earth-shattering, breathtaking had there been any ground left under Combeferre’s feet or air in his lungs. It was just simple, lips meeting lips but it also wasn't. It was also mouths breathing each other in, hearts beating fast and hard, hands clenching fabric between fingers.

Courfeyrac parted his lips, another question, another offering, and Combeferre’s arms slid around his back, holding on, almost holding up as he took Courfeyrac’s bottom lip between his teeth, gently sucking it into his mouth. Courfeyrac let out a gasp that sounded like half of a whimper and a memory neither of them would forget and Combeferre used the opportunity to swipe his tongue into Courfeyrac’s mouth. He felt Courfeyrac’s hand glide up into his hair, fingers slipping between the strands at the nape of his neck and gripping tight. Electricity sparked from the roots of his hair to his toes, fingertips. He kissed Courfeyrac, reveling in the heat of his mouth, the pulse of his heart against his chest where his own threatened to burst out of his ribcage.

Combeferre kissed him until his lungs burned.

He only didn’t chase the taste of Courfeyrac’s lips because they leaned back at the same time only so far that the air had space to rush back through their mouths with their heaving breaths, not enough for their foreheads to stop touching, their noses brushing against each other.

Combeferre didn’t open his eyes, only felt Courfeyrac’s quivering exhale, a surprised, trembling laugh.

Combeferre felt himself smiling and opened his eyes to Courfeyrac’s smile already waiting on his lips that were red and slightly swollen, and in his eyes, bright and more bright.

Something inside Combeferre was at the same time giddy and hysterical and slightly - utterly, utterly - wrecked.

By a kiss.

The next breath falling from his lips was a quiet laugh.

 

“Surreal.”

 

Courfeyrac licked his lips and rolled the lower between his teeth. Combeferre looked because he felt like, in this moment, he was allowed to.  “But nice, I hope.”

There was a slight hint of a question, insecurity in the words but it made Combeferre’s already straining heart clench. With one of his hands he reached up to brush a stray curl from Courfeyrac’s forehead, thumb tracing a cheek bone and soft, freckled skin.

“Very,” he said. Whispered. Into the space between their mouths.

Courfeyrac trembled a little in his arms with a laugh that was silent but a smile that was loud, loud, loud. Combeferre leaned in to taste that smile on his lips.

As Courfeyrac melted into him the whole world narrowed down to their lips, the whole word except for the scratching of keys at the door.

 

Courfeyrac jumped back as if burned and Combeferre only had a moment of time to register what was happening before the door opened.

 

Grantaire looked up, clearly surprised to see Combeferre standing in his way, not particularly surprised to see another person in his way a little further to the right. He looked at Combeferre, at Courfeyrac, back at Combeferre.

“Hi,” he said.

Courfeyrac cleared his throat. “Hi.”

Combeferre needed a moment to regain his ability to speak. “Hi.”

Grantaire looked at Combeferre, at Courfeyrac, back at Combeferre. Then he shrugged, an answer to whatever question he had been thinking and pushed his way past both of them into the apartment. He didn’t even turn around when he dropped his bag on the floor and headed for the fridge. “You’re not going to believe what happened today, seriously, art kids these days are the fucking worst -”

He disappeared behind the fridge door.

“Grantaire? Can you hold that thought for a moment?” Combeferre got out with a lot of effort that was appreciated by a dismissive noise from inside the fridge.

He nearly pushed Courfeyrac out of the door, not quite closing it behind them but enough so they wouldn’t be overheard. Courfeyrac looked eternally grateful and slightly panicked.

They stood in front of the door, three steps apart. Combeferre didn’t know what to say so he waited. His heart was still beating too hard in his chest, his breaths too short.

Courfeyrac didn’t look much better off but he cleared his throat.

“It’s…,” he started, a little hoarse, cleared his throat again. “It’s probably better… not to tell anyone about this.”

Combeferre licked his lips, Courfeyrac’s eyes traced the movement.

He didn’t know if he should feel disappointed when he had already gotten more than he had… not hoped because he considered himself realistic enough not to hope for something impossible. Dreamed perhaps. You could dream the impossible.

"Yeah,” he agreed. “Yeah. That's probably for the best.”

“Thank you,” Courfeyrac said and his expression was pained in a way that made Combeferre want to ask him to stay. He didn’t because Courfeyrac turned sudden and sharp and walked away so quickly that Combeferre didn’t realise it until he was already walking, running almost, down the stairs. And away.

Again.

He wondered if the same sight twice in one day was enough to make something achingly familiar.

Then he shook his head, to clear his mind, to the world, to the burning feeling on his lips.

When Combeferre walked back into the apartment Grantaire sat on the sofa, shoes dropped on the floor, with a plain plastic bottle in his hand. He looked up at Combeferre. Combeferre waited for him to say something. Grantaire said, “There’s something wrong with the water.”

Combeferre tried not to make the relief of the breath he let out too obvious. He took a closer look at the bottle. “That’s because it's vodka.”

Grantaire sniffed at the clear liquid, shrugged and took another swig without even blinking. He looked back at Combeferre. “You look a little red. You know, in the face.”

Combeferre felt the heat in his cheeks and didn’t answer.

Grantaire nodded knowingly, as if he had, and held out the bottle.

“Want some water?”

  
***

 

 


	3. Chapter III.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Courfeyrac is freaking out, Marius is a good friend, Combeferre is internally freaking out and Enjolras really didn't deserve this (or maybe a little bit).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative chapter titles: 'This author really does love Marius a whole lot' or 'That's what friends are for' or 'Adorable little filler chapter the author had way too much fun writing'

 

 

***

 

Courfeyrac was not alright.

He let himself drop face-first onto the sofa closest to the door - there were like three in his hotel suite which he considered a little excessive but also didn’t really care about right then - and welcomed the darkness even though the pillow in his face was slightly suffocating.

“You alright?” Marius asked and Courfeyrac felt the sofa dip a little next to his feet where he sat down.

Courfeyrac groaned into the pillow.

“You are not alright,” Marius interpreted correctly and Courfeyrac considered snapping back something like, ‘No shit’ but that would have required moving and also would have hurt Marius’s feelings which were both things he didn’t particularly feel like doing because they certainly wouldn’t have helped to improve his mood. Even though that was hopeless anyway.

He had somehow, barely managed to get through the press conference about the new movie in the morning. He was usually good at press conferences, friendly and charming. He didn’t mind talking in front of an audience but somehow, this time, every question had felt tedious and unable to capture his interest or particularly good graces.

And because actors were notorious self-promoters - which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, just a truth - his co-stars had been more than happy to take some of the attention off his shoulders. Still it wasn’t a usual thing to see Courfeyrac not smiling and flirting harmlessly with interviewers - something that he was not even aware of doing most of the times- and he knew that it had been noticed.

 

He supposed Cosette was somewhere doing damage control which meant he could deal with that point later.

Or well, never.

He wondered if he was worrying her and Marius and immediately knew that the answer was that yes, he did.

It didn’t make him feel any better.

 

“You seemed distracted today,” Marius noted, carefully.

Courfeyrac said nothing which meant yes.

“Is this about yesterday?”

Courfeyrac again said nothing which again meant yes.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Courfeyrac huffed into the pillow which meant he wasn’t sure that would help anything but Marius nudged his leg a little and waited patiently so eventually Courfeyrac got up enough to turn around, flopping back down with his gaze locked onto the white of the ceiling instead of the pitch-black pillow-stuffed darkness.

He supposed talking about it could not do any more harm - more than was already done - and also he could practically feel Marius worried puppy-eyes on him.

“I went back,” Courfeyrac half-murmured finally after staring into white space for a while.

“Oh,” said Marius and it wasn’t surprise in his tone but a simple encouragement for Courfeyrac to continue.

“To the bookshop, I mean.” He knew it was obvious what he had meant but it felt like a safe ground before earth-shattering territory.

“Mmm,” said Marius.

Courfeyrac took a deep breath. “I mean, I didn’t _really_ go back, I just… I don’t know, I wanted to go back to the hotel because it was pretty late already and I guess I thought I could just ... pass by one more time. Or something. And then I… well. I kind of ran into him.”

“Him?”

“ _Him._ ”

“Ah.” Marius paused.  “Is that’s why there’s a giant iced caramel latte stain on your hoodie?”

Courfeyrac gaped at him.

“How do you know -,” he started, then shook his head. “You know what, nevermind. Yeah. That.” He breathed in. Marius's expression was soft and sympathetic.

Courfeyrac breathed out. “He felt bad about it and said I could get cleaned up in his bathroom because he lived right across the street. Which I did. And… then I left.”

“And?” Marius asked with a remarkable amount of patience.

Courfeyrac swallowed. “And then I went back. And then I kissed him.”

“Ah.”

“I mean, I didn’t mean to or well, I _did_ but it was really just like… an impulse! I just stood there and thought that I wanted, _wished_ I could just ask him out or something, anything but I knew I couldn’t. So I thought, what the hell, I could just… have that, I don’t know, because why the fuck not? Why shouldn’t I be able to - dammit. I wanted just a moment, you know. Just something… simple.”

Courfeyrac was well aware that ‘simple’ wasn’t exactly the word fitting the whole situation. ‘Messy’ might have been a better one. Or surreal. Very much that.

 

He groaned again and buried his face in his hands until stars danced in front of his eyes in the hope they would distract, stop him from thinking about Combeferre.

 

Marius hummed thoughtfully. “So you can’t stop thinking about him.”

It wasn’t really a question at all but still Courfeyrac groaned into his hands which meant yes.

“And you would like to get to know him better.”

Another groan.

“Because you like him.”

Courfeyrac snorted, a sound that was almost a laugh but too bitter. “I don't know, I’ve known him for less than a day and it doesn't even matt- ouch! What the hell, Marius?”

Marius looked only slightly guilty when Courfeyrac nearly toppled off the sofa at the surprisingly firm hit to the back of his head and only just managed to keep his balance.

“You were being a moron,” Marius stated matter-of-factly as if that was a reasonable explanation.

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

Courfeyrac didn’t know whether to feel more affronted by the hit or the accusation but the first was still a little too surprising to process so he focused on the second to sulk.

 

Marius still looked infuriatingly nonchalant about the whole thing.

 

“You think he’s attractive?” he asked slowly as if patiently explaining a math problem to a stubborn kid.

Courfeyrac rubbed the sore spot at the back of his head and glared at him.

“Yeah,” he grumbled. Stubbornly.

Marius nodded apparently satisfied with the answer. “Alright. And you want to get to know him better so I assume you think he’s interesting?”

“Yeah.”

“And you enjoyed kissing him?”

Courfeyrac felt himself blush which was ridiculous because Marius already knew the answer and Courfeyrac already knew and now he was thinking about Combeferre again and that really didn’t _help_ in the current situation.

Marius looked at him expectantly.

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac ground out between his teeth and blushed even more. He really didn’t know where Marius was going with this or what it had to do with Courfeyrac’s problem of thinking about something, some _one_ he could only forget, and it didn’t get more apparent when Marius only nodded again and asked, “Do you remember how you teased me when I first met Cosette and I told you she was the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen and the only thing I wished for my life would be being happy with her?”

 

Courfeyrac blinked. “What?”

 

Marius seemed to take that as a yes - which it was, next to utter confusion which the other man pointedly ignored. A small smile played around his mouth, soft and a little distant. Courfeyrac stared at it, uncomprehending, and said nothing so Marius continued. Courfeyrac rarely noticed how much taller than him Marius was but in that moment it seemed obvious. 

“I didn’t care. I mean, I _minded_ that you teased me but I didn’t care, you know? About what you were saying because even if it might not have been rational or ordinary I knew how I felt and you couldn’t tell me otherwise. No one can tell you how you feel because your feelings are your own and only your own. And if you feel them, they’re valid no matter if anyone or society or logic tells you they’re not. They are. So you think he’s attractive and interesting and a good kisser. And you can’t stop thinking about him...”

He looked at Courfeyrac with a serious and somehow scolding expression and Courfeyrac stared at him. The first sound that he got out wasn’t planned and the slightly strangled laugh surprised even himself.

He didn't know if a comparison to Marius and Cosette who were that beautiful, genuinely in love-at-the-first-sight couple but for a moment it didn't feel all that unlikely.

Because he _liked_ Combeferre. Really, _really_ liked him.

And it hurt.

 

“When did you get so wise?” he joked half-heartedly, voice sounding scratchy.

Marius rolled his eyes but Courfeyrac noticed the tips of his ears turning scarlet.

“I’m not,” he mumbled which sounded more sheepish and a lot more Marius what made Courfeyrac feel a little more grounded again. Only a little though.

Marius said, “You are just over-dramatic and short of a nervous breakdown.”

Courfeyrac didn’t disagree because he supposed, maybe there was something accurate about that.

“Probably,” he admitted. “So, what am I supposed to do, oh wise one?”

And maybe it also sounded more desperate than teasing what Marius thankfully didn’t mention. He absentmindedly patted Courfeyrac’s leg.

“You like him,” he said and Courfeyrac around the lump of emotions in his throat nodded. “Yeah.”

Marius smiled triumphantly. “Then get to know him better,” he said enthusiastically which was, well, kind of cute but not exactly helpful.

“But he’s…,” Courfeyrac started to protest, stopped and started again. “I mean, I am...” He struggled to find a word that fit. Difficult. A mess. Probably not worth the effort. “Famous,” he finished lamely.

Marius shrugged. “And? I don’t think a _job_ is a reason not to like, date someone. I mean unless one is a serial killer and the other... FBI agent? Even though serial killer is probably not a job. Also I don’t think either of you is, so really, where’s the problem? You like him, you get to know him better and maybe he’s not even that great” - Courfeyrac scoffed - “Or maybe he is and it’s worth it. And believe me, if it _really_ is, Cosette would tell you the same thing!”

When he finished, throwing his hands into the air in a way that was pretty dramatic for someone accusing other people of being over-dramatic only a minute ago, Courfeyrac considered what to say. 

He could agree, admitting Marius was right but he felt better already which he hadn't even considered possible earlier. He settled on, “You think it’s cute.” Teasing.

Marius blushed to his hairline. Courfeyrac's good mood rapidly increased.

“Okay, yes, so what? It’s a meet-cute! It’s super romantic!”

Courfeyrac couldn’t help it, he broke out laughing.

Marius tried to glare at him but the intention fell a little short because he seemed more relieved that Courfeyrac was back to smiling. It felt good to smile.

Courfeyrac felt another rush of overwhelming gratitude and on impulse sat up and threw his arms around Marius’s neck. 

The other man startled but automatically returned the embrace albeit a little bit awkwardly, patting Courfeyrac’s shoulder.

Courfeyrac leaned back. “Alright, let’s do this.” Then, “Okay, where the hell is my phone?”

 

***

 

“Hello?”

Courfeyrac didn’t recognize the voice on the other end of the line.

It wasn’t Combeferre’s voice though, that much was clear.

He had dialed the number of the bookshop because he hadn’t asked for Combeferre’s because he hadn’t expected to call him or see him again or do anything but try not to think about him.

He felt nervous and euphoric and more nervous.

Marius nudged his side with his elbow reminding Courfeyrac to say something.

“A very good morning to you!” He hoped he sounded more charming than like a crazy person. “I happened to come across your bookshop yesterday and I was wondering if Combeferre was available because -”

Before Courfeyrac could continue with what would have been some probably ominous and unconvincing excuse he was interrupted.

“Oooooh.” Then, “You came by yesterday?”

Courfeyrac hesitated a little. “...yeah?”

“And you want to speak to Combeferre?”

“Uh...yes?”

There was a sound through the phone like a spoon stirring in a cup of tea.

“Well,” said the voice, drawing out the word. “He’s not here right now, he’s in for a late shift today. I suppose he’s somewhere for breakfast drinking coffee or latte or something equally atrocious thinking I don’t know but believe me, I do. I can give you his number?”

It took Courfeyrac a few seconds to form a coherent answer that didn’t include the phrases ‘What?’ or ‘Huh?’.

Marius who had been listening looked stunned and confused which was a very common look on his face but Courfeyrac rarely shared the sentiment.

“Yeah,” he managed eventually. “Yes, that would be very nice of you.”

“Oh, you’re welcome!” the voice returned cheerily. Then they passed on the number and ended the call with, “Oh and when you call him tell him Jehan is not amused about the coffee, would you? Tell him it’s not good for his emotional balance.”

Courfeyrac couldn’t even say anything in return.

He stared at the phone, the piece of paper where he had scribbled down the number, then at Marius who just shook his head in the universal gesture of ‘I don’t even know’.

Relatable.

Courfeyrac, fondly, wondered how many times he would have gone crazy without him.

 

***

 

Combeferre loved Enjolras even before his first cup of coffee in the morning and even more so after.

At least one or two times a week they went for breakfast together which mostly ended in brunch and more coffee.

After about 15 minutes of comfortable silence, because they both were not exactly socially capable individuals _before_ the kicking in of the effects of caffeine, they got to talking about their week, friends and everything else.

 

Enjolras was currently on his second cup and a rant about some asshole encountered on the metro on the way to the café.

Combeferre nodded along and sipped at his coffee - double shot espresso - until Enjolras was interrupted by Combeferre’s phone ringing.

Enjolras stopped mid-sentence and frowned. “Who the hell is calling you now, I’m _here._ ”

Combeferre might have been more insulted if there had been less truth to the statement but it was inherently accurate. Not because he didn’t have friends but because Enjolras was the only one detesting every electronic device with a fierceness that was fundamental to his character which meant calling was the lesser evil instead of texting. No one else really seemed to share that sentiment though, Combeferre included.

He rolled his eyes and rummaged in his pockets for his phone, frowning as well at the unknown number.

“Hello?”

“Hi, uhm, here’s Courfeyrac.”

 

Combeferre almost dropped the phone into his coffee.

 

He sucked in a sharp breath which he nearly choked on and somehow managed to get out a surprised, slightly too high noise that might have passed as a “Hi!”

 

Enjolras raised a very neat eyebrow.

 

Combeferre chose to ignore him and quickly cleared his throat which didn’t make his heart beat any slower but at least covered the undignified reaction. Hopefully.

“Hi,” he said again. More calm. Very casual.

“Hi,” said Courfeyrac, it sounded like a laugh and a little bit nervous.

Combeferre smiled and only realised the ineffectiveness of a smile in a phone conversation as Enjolras’s left eyebrow was joined by the right.

Words, Combeferre thought a little bit hysterically, words were probably a good idea.

Combeferre had felt like he had kind of forgotten all the words but fortunately Courfeyrac had already started talking again.

“I, well. I got your number from, uh, Jehan? I hope that’s okay?”

“Yes,” Combeferre said immediately, probably too quick but then he realized with a start that Courfeyrac sounded actually _nervous_ about calling him which was a whole new other thought that messed with his perception of reality. “Really, that’s totally fine. I just didn’t think you’d-”

Ever talk to me again, see me again, appear in any way in my life again apart from my dreams?

“-call,” Combeferre finished.

Courfeyrac huffed a little, a nervous laugh that sounded like he knew exactly what Combeferre had been thinking. “Honestly, I didn’t think I would either but.. well, here we are.”

“Yeah.” Combeferre felt breathless. He sounded breathless. “I’m glad you did. Call, I mean.”

Courfeyrac let out an audible breath. “Good, that’s… good.”

The silence was tense and reminded Combeferre of the day before, Courfeyrac knocking at his door, coming back inside. Courfeyrac smiling at him. Kissing him. His thoughts inevitably, always returned to that, after every turn, distraction, always back to Courfeyrac’s lips on his.

“Why did-,” he started at the same time Courfeyrac said, “I just-”

Silence.

Combeferre bit into his bottom lip so hard it hurt a little while his heart seemed ready to jump out of his chest.

Courfeyrac laughed quietly, beautifully. “I’ll go first, I mean, _I_ called. I just thought that I’d ask you if you would like to, maybe… come by sometime? We could get coffee? Or something?”

Combeferre’s brain carefully took a few seconds time to comprehend the actual meaning of the words, the implication - that they might see each other again, that Courfeyrac _wanted_ them to see each other again - and then something as time didn’t matter.

“Yes,” he said immediately not bothering about sounding too eager or enthusiastic, not caring about the smile that broke out on his face. “Yes, I would love to.”

“Wait, really?”

Combeferre couldn’t help it, he laughed. He had thought he was the only one thinking about how surreal all of this was and somehow knowing that he wasn’t made everything the exact opposite, startlingly, excitingly _real._

“Yes, really. How about… tomorrow?”

“Oh wow, uhm, tomorrow could be a bit busy,” Courfeyrac said and, before Combeferre could start to feel even a little bit disappointed, continued, “You know what, fuck it. Yeah, let’s do that. What about 3 o'clock? I could text you the address?”

Combeferre thought his grin might split his face in half but he couldn’t have cared less in that very moment. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“I guess… I’ll see you then?”

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac said and he sounded as happy as Combeferre felt.

Then before either of them could hang up. “Oh, before I forget, Jehan told me I should tell you that the coffee you’re drinking is atrocious and bad for your emotional stability? It sounded kind of disappointed? What’s that about?”

Combeferre blinked. “That’s…,” he tried to think of any way to somehow describe the marvel that was Jehan Prouvaire while at the same time ignoring the creeping sensation of being watched by some henchman of a poncho-wearing poet which was impossible and probably exactly what said poncho-wearing poet had intended. “It’s a long story.”

Courfeyrac chuckled. Combeferre’s stomach did a somersault at the sound. “Well, you can tell me all about that tomorrow, right?”

”Right,” he agreed. Even though they were on the phone and Courfeyrac couldn’t see his smile, Combeferre was sure he must have heard it in his voice. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Me too,” Courfeyrac said and Combeferre could hear the smile in his voice. “I’ll see you then.”

“Yes.”

“Bye.”

Courfeyrac hung up and Combeferre smiled at his phone, for a second just staring at it while his thoughts danced happily, tangled, ecstatic things in his mind. He laughed again and it sounded surprised even in his own ears like he didn’t quite believe what had just happened and maybe he didn’t, maybe he needed another moment or a hundred to fully comprehend the reality of life.

 

Enjolras cleared his throat.

 

Combeferre nearly dropped his phone again because he had kind of forgotten about the existence of other human beings in the world. Enjolras’s left eyebrow was lifted in a perfectly curved line

“Well?”

Combeferre felt like a schoolboy put on the spot by the scrutiny of a couple of short, strategically well-placed hairs  above bright eyes which was usually something that happened to others and not to Combeferre who had actually thaught Enjolras that look.

“Uhm,” he said intelligently. He fished for words in his mind that was mostly otherwise occupied. “I met… this guy?”

“Do tell,” Enjolras commented dryly.

Combeferre felt the heat in his cheeks and Enjolras’s raised eyebrow quivered in a way that bordered on amusement. Combeferre wondered when they had started to be able to read each other like open books, comfortable and familiar.

“I don’t really know … what it is,” he settled on eventually which was the truth. “It’s not actually anything yet.” Which was a little too close to the truth for Combeferre’s liking.

Enjolras nodded with a thoughtful expression. “What do you want it to be then?”

The point was that Combeferre didn’t know that either. Because he hadn’t even had time to _think_ about the actual possibility of ‘something’ instead of ‘nice, surreal daydream’.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly, “It’s complicated.”

“How can it be complicated if it’s not ‘actually anything yet’?”

Combeferre, with effort, pulled together the logical and reasonable parts of his brain and considered the question.

“You know,” he said slowly. “You’re right. It's... not. It isn’t complicated because I don’t actually know what it’s going to be and I shouldn’t let the possibility of what might be or might not be dictate the present. You’re absolutely right.”

He nodded, stopped to rethink the words, and nodded again.

Enjolras huffed and took a sip of his coffee. “You sound surprised.”

Combeferre whose coffee was cold by then, a fact that was irrelevant enough to not have any effects on his excellent mood, shrugged. “About you giving good dating advice? Yes, I am. That’s like Parnasse giving good dating advice.”

Enjolras’s mouth twisted. “Oh, please,” he scoffed. “That man’s an absolute catastrophe who pretends to be aggravated and oblivious instead of acknowledging his feelings that he very well knows are there even if he tries to ignore them." His cheeks were distinctly more red when he had finished. 

His glare dared Combeferre to say something.

Combeferre simply raised an eyebrow and for a while Enjolras stayed stubbornly quiet while Combeferre tried not to laugh.

“Well,” he eventually said casually, “Enough about that, right?”

He didn’t miss the relieved breath Enjolras let out even though he tried to hide it behind his coffee cup. “Right.”

Combeferre smiled.

“So,” he said. “How’s Grantaire these days?”

 

Enjolras perfectly choked on his coffee and didn’t stop coughing for a whole minute.

  
***

 

 


	4. Chapter IV.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Combeferre is nervous about the date, Courfeyrac is nervous about the date, and there’s a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative Chapter Title: Wherein the author decides that writing incredibly sappy stuff about dead fictional french people is a good idea. Also the author apologizes for this taking so long but with uni and nanowrimo she kind of got out of the Les Mis Groove for a while there. DO NOT FRET though, the groove is returning!

 

 

***

 

“You look great, really! But...,” Jehan paused, a frown edging two tiny wrinkles between their eyebrows. “Don’t you think there’s a little … lack of colour?”

Combeferre couldn’t help but stare at Jehan and by extension Jehan’s rainbow-coloured poncho, mint green jeans and blue-dyed tips of red hair and well. He didn’t really know how he was supposed to react to that question.

 

Someone else was more affirmed in their opinion.

 

“Oh my _god_ , Jehan,” Montparnasse groaned. He pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes for a moment as if trying to stop himself from spontaneously combusting. The expression was a surprisingly emotional one on his face. There was a slightly paler tinge to his complexion which in Montparnasse’s case meant it was bordering on green.

Combeferre didn’t know how he had even gotten into his apartment.

“What are you even doing here?” he asked which might have been a little late but he had been distracted by Jehan shoving a paper cup of tea into his face.

Montparnasse ignored him except for a quick, devastating glare. Jehan ignored both of them and shrugged unfazed. “Just saying. I mean, it’s a date, right? And you’re looking like a…,” they trailed off giving Combeferre another critical once over and settled on, “Lawyer? A very good looking lawyer, though.”

“Bahorel is a lawyer.” Combeferre tugged at his white button-up over a pair of - previously considered nice - dress pants. He didn’t think he looked like Bahorel.

“Don’t let him hear you said that,” Jehan advised which was true even though the fact that Bahorel was a lawyer was as well. They didn’t talk about it.

“Also that man has more sense of style in his little finger than both of you combined in your whole bodies,” Montparnasse stated matter-of-factly.

Combeferre stared at him surprised. Jehan only looked amused.

Montparnasse scowled. “What? Just because I want to gut him at ninety-nine percent of our conversations doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate his fashion sense.”

Combeferre didn’t try to argue with that logic mostly because he didn’t even attempt to understand it. Jehan was trying, incredibly unsuccessfully, not to grin.

Montparnasse tried to glare at them but as always when it came to Jehan all sense of annoyance and animosity fell a little short because looked too fond and looked away too quickly.

Clearing his throat he turned back to Combeferre and regarded his attire with a frown and dismissively curled mouth. When he looked at Combeferre it was a lot more convincing.

He tried not to think too hard about it but sometimes Montparnasse’s presence felt like a blade casually hovering over your palm, either to protect or to cut your skin, always potential for danger.

Montparnasse sighed theatrically. “The shirt is fine.”

Alright.

Maybe Combeferre was being a bit dramatic but well, his nerves were a little high-strung. Which, of course, was ridiculous because he was simply going on a date, a simple date, just a date. Nothing complicated. He had been on a few dates - alright, _some_ dates - in the past and even the less good ones hadn’t been particularly bad. Just… never really led to anything serious. So really, he shouldn’t be nervous or worried or anything.

Combeferre was enough of a realist to be aware that he was, though. He was worried. And nervous. _Very_ nervous. So he had, like a sensible human being, taken great caution not to think about it too much.

He had gone to the bookshop, worked on the bookkeeping even if it was only the middle of the month and after he had tried to clean up the bathroom slash backroom slash kitchen which turned out to be a very time- as well as thought-consuming endeavour, even though fairly hopeless. But his plan had worked out pretty well, all in all.

Or at least up it had until ten minutes ago when he had realized that if he wanted to be on time for his date with Courfeyrac he would have to go home and change and then Jehan had insisted to take a break and come along and then Montparnasse had somehow materialized in his apartment as well and all Combeferre could think about was how he was going to go on a date with Courfeyrac.

Oh god.

“Alright,” Montparnasse snapped and startled Combeferre back into the present. “Which one is your room?”

Combeferre blinked. “What?”

Montparnasse let out a sigh that had an equal tone of annoyance and suffering to it. “Room. Yours. Where.”

Combeferre blinked again. “The one to the left?”

The way Montparnasse rolled his eyes made him worry that they would get stuck on the way back but they didn’t and he was stalking away and throwing the door to Combeferre’s room shut behind him. Jehan coughed in a way that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

Combeferre considered asking them what Montparnasse was doing but didn’t think he wanted to know the answer anyway. He sipped at his tea instead until the other man returned with a bundle of fabric that looked like pants in his hand.

Montparnasse looked like he considered throwing the pants at Combeferre but obviously he didn’t want to ruin the ‘fine’ shirt by spilling hot tea all over it. Combeferre didn’t have any illusions that it had something to do with him but more with the shirt.

“This one,” Montparnasse said and it didn’t sound like a suggestion. He turned around though which to let Combeferre change which was surprisingly considerate. Jehan just laughed, Combeferre wasn't sure if it was at him or Montparnasse. 

After he managed to somehow get his legs into the ridiculously tight pair of dark blue jeans that he had almost completely forgotten until that point and very indistinctly remembered getting as a Christmas present from Bahorel that he had banished into the deepest depths of his closet, Montparnasse turned back around and looked a little less murderous.

“Well,” he said, “I guess you’re not hopeless. Unlike some other present individuals.”

Jehan smiled pleasantly and patted Montparnasse’s arm. “Don’t worry, we’ll get some colour for you too, honey.”

 

Combeferre thought that the red rising in Montparnasse’s cheeks was a good point to start.  

 

***

 

Courfeyrac was nervous.

No, he wasn’t nervous, not exactly. He was something that humankind hadn’t found a word for yet, something that surpassed nervousness, something that was at the same time excitement, anticipation and anxiousness and all of that multiplied by wondering if he had made an incredibly terrible decision and hoping to have made the best.

So basically Courfeyrac was super-hyper-incredibly nervous.

He was just going to settle for that as long as he couldn’t think of anything else.

God, he was a mess.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror next to the door of his hotel suite and well, he supposed he was at least a kind of good-looking mess. He had spent the entire morning doing interviews and all afternoon giving autographs and taking photos with fans for which a whole team of people was paid to make sure he looked good.

But it also meant he was late or well, he wasn’t really late because Combeferre wasn’t there yet but Courfeyrac was late because he had only just closed the door behind him and Combeferre was going to be there soon if he was punctual which Courfeyrac guessed he was.

He didn’t know, though.

But he wanted to. He wanted to know basically everything about Combeferre.

Hence, the date.

 

He had a _date_.

 

Courfeyrac hadn’t been that nervous - super-hyper-incredibly nervous - about a date since, well, ever probably.

Despite, or maybe more because, he had been kind of famous since he was a teenager and dating had never really been high up on his list of priorities.

Maybe he was terrible at it.

Oh god, he was probably terrible at it.

 

He was just about to dive into another maybe a little overdramatic panic when Courfeyrac’s phone buzzed with a text.

 

            **From Marius** : _Hey, it’s going to be great! You’re amazing and funny and really handsome! He’s going to love you! :)_

 

Courfeyrac was amazed by how a simple text captured Marius entire being of an undeniably romantic, undeniably bisexual, adorable neat-freak texting with accurate punctuation. Some things didn’t change.

It was a pretty grounding thought that made him feel only half super-hyper-incredibly nervous which might not have sounded like much of an improvement but definitely felt like one.

He smiled and did a screenshot of the text - because even he needed the one or other ego-boost sometimes and it was nice to know that even your engaged best friend slash personal assistant considered you handsome even if he wasn’t drunk on three strawberry daiquiris. Really, Courfeyrac was only human.

There was a knock at the door and Courfeyrac almost dropped his phone then and there.

So much to half nervous.

He might have ripped the door open a little more forcefully than necessary. Like a band-aid, done and over with.

 

“Hi,” Combeferre said with a smile on his lips and in his eyes and Courfeyrac opened his mouth to say something in return, something sophisticated like, ‘Hello, it’s so great you’re here’ or ‘Hello, how are you? You look great’ - which would have been the understatement of the century, who was he kidding, _millennia._

“Hi,” he breathed out.

He didn’t know where his breath had gone but he suspected it might have been stolen by the contrast of Combeferre’s skin against the stark white of his shirt or the fairly illegal tightness of his dark jeans. Or probably by that smile on the other man’s face as they stared and grinned at each other like crazy people.

It reminded Courfeyrac of their kiss.

 

Combeferre was the first to break the silence with a soft laugh. His mouth quirked. “Monsieur Remy?”

It took Courfeyrac a long moment to gather enough presence of mind to realize what he was talking about, then proceeded to blush furiously. “Oh my god, it’s a code name!”

Basically, it was about ‘discretion’ as Cosette called it so no one could walk up to the reception of the hotel and demand to see him. Courfeyrac preferred ‘code name’ because it sounded more badass and less asshole.

He maybe should have thought of something more dignified than a - frankly adorable - rat from an animated kids movie before inviting Combeferre over. But the other man looked incredibly amused by Courfeyrac’s suffering, so maybe it was good he hadn’t.

“I figured that much,” Combeferre said and the smile painted his voice soft as well and all the sudden Courfeyrac didn’t feel nervous anymore. He felt good. Slightly mortified, yes, but maybe even something close to happy.

He grinned back. “Stop making fun of me, Remy is amazing and Ratatouille was a classic. Is a classic. Should definitely be a classic. And it’s set in Paris!”

“I’m not disagreeing,” Combeferre said calmly but still smiling with a bit of mischief in his eyes that should not have been as attractive as it was.

Courfeyrac pretended to have some of his dignity left. “Good for you because otherwise I totally would have shut this door into your face.”

He was well aware he would have done no such thing. Combeferre looked like he was too but he still said seriously, “I guess I should be glad then that I seem to have appropriate opinions about animated children’s movies.”

He did sound glad, happy as well. Courfeyrac smiled and Combeferre smiled back.  He didn’t know when he had last met someone that he felt this connected to, like they had known each other for longer than just a day, like all their life and more lives.

The thought brought back some of the nervousness, the doubt of _too much, too soon_ but it was easier to ignore with Combeferre smiling at him.

“Yeah, you should be,” he agreed and then finally opened the door wider for Combeferre to step inside.

For a moment he was too distracted by the image of Combeferre in the sunlight by the window front of the suite looking out onto the spread of Paris to the horizon, two beautiful, beautiful things at once.

At Combeferre’s amused smile Courfeyrac snapped out of his haze and remembered that he was supposed to have been taught something like manners by his mother.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked, walking over to the phone that he had been told was responsible for connecting him to room service. “Coffee? Iced Caramel Latte, perhaps?”

He couldn’t help but grin when Combeferre looked a little sheepish at that. It was adorable.

“Tea would be nice,” he said eventually. “Green?”

Before Courfeyrac could ask for an explanation, he added, “I promised Jehan not to drink that much coffee anymore. My co-worker, you talked to them. They’re persistent. And psychic, I’m afraid.”

Courfeyrac blinked. Then he laughed, surprised and delighted and absolutely enchanted, for the lack of a better word and maybe there really wasn’t one. And nervous felt like an echo of something entirely different, better suddenly. 

“Hold that thought, I’m begging you,” he pleaded and Combeferre laughed, and if the lady from room service thought Courfeyrac sounded a little happy about ordering green tea and a latte, well, he supposed they had heard a lot worse things than that.

 

***

 

Courfeyrac had never been exactly interested in physics, or science, or anything that had to do with a whole lot of numbers, honestly. He had played a chemist in a movie once and had been allowed to write formulas on a window pane which had been pretty cool. He had tried to do some research on the subject and even with his amount of enthusiasm and dedication hadn’t gotten very far since apparently his brain wasn’t particularly wired for that kind of stuff. He wasn’t too beat up about it though.

He still didn’t think people were supposed to gravitate to each other like that, like magnets but still, maybe scientists had been wrong on that one, maybe there were going to be new studies, new research, epiphanies, about how Courfeyrac sat next to Combeferre on a hotel sofa with a cold latte in his hand and found himself just edging closer and closer until their knees were touching, careful but right there in a way he couldn’t and didn’t want to ignore.   

 

Courfeyrac didn’t even know what they had been talking about all the time, about everything and nothing, in the end, but he had never felt time passing so quickly before. It came as a surprise that almost startled Courfeyrac into dropping the cup he was still holding in his hands when his phone chimed a couple of hours - years? - later.

Combeferre tried to hide his grin behind his hand and a polite cough when Courfeyrac almost fell off the sofa. It was way too cute to be mad about it. He settled on blushing, unintentionally, and lightly punching the other man’s arm instead, totally intentional.

“Sorry,” Combeferre said sounding not sorry at all, and nodded at Courfeyrac’s phone on the coffee table next to the sofa. It made another sound, and Courfeyrac quietly considered throwing it out of the window. “It’s alright if you take a look, it could be important.”

Courfeyrac bit back a ‘You’re important,’ which would have been entirely true and really, really sappy. “Just a second.”

 

**From Marius:** _And????_

**From Marius:** _How’s it going????_

 

Courfeyrac couldn’t help but grin and laughed when a moment later another text came in.

 

**From Cosette:** _Sorry, I could only hold him back so long. He might be more excited than you are._

 

He looked up at Combeferre who was smiling with an amused, raised eyebrow.

“My friends are way too nosey for their own good,” Courfeyrac explained and Combeferre’s expression shifted to the soft, slightly exasperated and mostly fond look Courfeyrac had learned was how Combeferre always seemed to look when thinking or talking about his own friends.

“I know what you mean.”

And that, Courfeyrac had the feeling he always did, no matter what he said or didn’t say.

It was a feeling that made something warm settle under his skin, that washed away all the thoughts that wanted to scream at him about problems, trouble, more problems. He didn’t even care, right then, not even a little bit.

“Yeah, they’ll probably want to know every little detail. Detailed verdict, lists, as soon as you step out of this room,” he grinned and wasn’t surprised how little he wanted that moment to come.

“I hope it’s a good verdict then,” Combeferre said and his smile was so serious and earnest that Courfeyrac couldn’t look away.

He felt the point where their knees were pressing together like it was burning, slowly and warm. 

He swallowed. “Well, it’s looking good so far.” He didn’t know how his voice sounded but it felt heavy in his throat, like there was more to the words than just what he said.

“I mean,” he started again. He wondered if it was better not to continue, if it was too much again, too fast but Combeferre smiled, Combeferre who talked about his friends and books and the universe and Courfeyrac realized he really, really wanted to continue. Everything, basically. “You could always stay for dinner? You know, so I’ll have some more time before I get thrown to the wolves.”

Combeferre chuckled.

Courfeyrac was  self-aware enough to know that he was completely gone on him.

“I’d love to,” Combeferre said and maybe that was something not all that bad, in the end. But then Combeferre’s face fell abruptly. “But I can’t, I’m really sorry.”

Before Courfeyrac could indulge in the feeling of crushing disappointment, Combeferre hurried to continue, “I’d really like to stay, I mean it but I uhm, there’s this birthday party I have to be at, I totally forgot, I’m probably late already, I didn’t even notice how much time passed, I’m really sorry.”

He did look sorry, with his brown eyes wide and earnest and Courfeyrac didn’t have to fake a smile when he said, “It’s fine.”

It didn’t mean he wasn’t disappointed but he hoped -

“I’m sorry,” Combeferre said again. “It’s for my friend’s little brother, he’s twelve.”

Courfeyrac blinked.

That… was not what he had expected.

“Oh?”

Combeferre smiled, a little distractedly, “Yeah, he’s been really excited.” He bit down on his lip like he was concentrating very hard for a moment and started, “I mean… I guess I could stay if -”

“No!” Courfeyrac interrupted him immediately because holy shit, he was not going to be the asshole to ruin a twelve-year-old’s birthday party even though he certainly wouldn’t have minded keeping Combeferre for the rest of the evening or well, ever. Which was probably the exact reason why instead he blurted out, “I could come with you?”

Combeferre looked at him like he had lost his mind.

Courfeyrac wasn’t so sure he hadn’t but he had heard enough people telling him he was insane - in a loving way, mostly - to worry about it. “I mean, I wouldn’t want to be a bother or anything, I just really liked this” - he made a gesture that included him, Combeferre and the room in the hope it helped getting his point across - “So, I mean, I could come with you? I could be your date?”

 

“You want to be my date,” Combeferre repeated incredulously. “To a twelve-year-old’s birthday party?”

 

Courfeyrac shrugged a little helplessly. “You’ll be there,” he said which wasn’t an absolutely mortifying thing to say. At _all_. “And I mean, there’s probably going to be cake right, that’s definitely a great reason, much better reason, cake is amazing.”

Even though Courfeyrac was probably going to die of embarrassment before which would result in never eating cake _ever_ again.

 

And then a slow smile spread over Combeferre’s face that made his eyes crinkle a little and Courfeyrac’s knee that wasn’t pressed against Combeferre’s tremble like a leaf.

“That would be great,” he said and Courfeyrac let out a laugh and didn’t care how helplessly happy he looked in that moment because he was pretty sure that the way Combeferre looked back at him was just the same.

 

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I love Pixar movies.


	5. Chapter V.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Combeferre is enamoured, Courfeyrac makes some new friends and Gavroche gets a couple of really nice birthday presents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, at least this didn't take just as long as the other one only like, almost... I'm sorry, exams are terrible and don't like me. Anyway, (almost) all Amis in one chapter, isn't that great? (I do hope so). Enjoy! ♥

 

 

 

***

 

Combeferre was doing his best to just stay… calm. And it was surprising how easy it was to be calm, actually.

Though he supposed it was less about himself and more about how Courfeyrac had turned out to be one of the most easiest people to talk to, funny and witty and seemingly unbothered when Combeferre took a few moments to choose his words carefully, something he found himself doing less and less the more they talked, pulled in by Courfeyrac’s generous smiles and carefree chatter, the enthusiasm of his gestures.

So yes, Combeferre was sure he must have been sitting there with what were basically hearts in his eyes but he felt surprisingly alright with that.

He just might not be quite able to grasp the concept yet that someone as perfectly wonderful and sweet as Courfeyrac obviously enjoyed spending time with _him._ Not that he ever had considerable problems concerning his self-confidence, not really, but some things were just a little… unreal.

Not that he was complaining. One of the most beautiful and amazing people Combeferre had ever met wanted to accompany him to a birthday party of a barely-teenager with about half a dozen barely-adults he didn’t know just because he didn’t want to leave Combeferre just yet.

Yes, Combeferre was definitely not complaining.

He was totally calm about the whole thing.

He just had to stifle the urge to smother himself with one of the fluffy hotel pillows to hide the most likely really ridiculous smile threatening to spread over his face.

 

Courfeyrac had disappeared in one of the adjacent rooms to grab a jacket or go to the bathroom, Combeferre wasn’t sure what with how his head was still stuck on the part where Courfeyrac wanted to come with him and too occupied to pay much attention to anything but the radiance of Courfeyrac’s smile.

When Combeferre realized that he was standing alone in a high-class hotel room after probably more than a few seconds of staring stupidly content into thin air, he became aware that maybe he needed to call in with the others to make sure it was even okay to bring someone along. Someone who was Courfeyrac. Who was his date.

Maybe not the best thing to break down over the phone.

But then even though he was sure that Feuilly most likely wouldn’t mind some more people in the café and Bahorel usually baked enough for a whole hockey team, it would just be plain rude not to tell he was bringing another person even though he probably wouldn’t be hearing the end of it. He probably could survive being impolite one time but…

 

Combeferre sighed, pulled the phone out of his pocket and scrolled through his contacts in search for Feuilly’s number because he was the one who would most likely be giving him the least - well-meaning - shit about this. Hopefully.

“Hey, hey, hey, Combeferre, my dude!” Bahorel cheerfully answered the phone and well, so much for that. Dammit.

 “Hey Bahorel,” Combeferre said not bothering to ask where Feuilly was. The answer was ‘around’, always, when Bahorel was concerned.

“What’s up?” Bahorel asked and didn’t give Combeferre a chance to answer because he was already continuing happily, “You coming, or what? We’re going to get this show on the road in like forty-five minutes here, we’re putting together the cake right now, well, Feuilly is because someone has to keep Jehan from like, eating the thing, I got no idea where they put it, they should be like three times their size with how much they eat, seriously.”

There was a sad, slightly affronted noise in the background that sounded like it was halfway smothered by something, Combeferre suspected Bahorel’s hand.

“How big it that ca-,” Combeferre started and stopped himself because Bahorel loved Gavroche so he wouldn’t be surprised if the cake was as big as a small castle. Also, not the point.

“Never mind. Listen, I just wanted to give you a heads up, I’m… bringing someone.”

Bahorel, on the other end of the line, was silent.

“A … date someone?” Combeferre said.

More silence.

Then Combeferre almost dropped the phone when Bahorel shouted, “The FUCK, man?!” which was followed by a gleeful shrieking sound and a little more distant shout of, “Guys, guys! Ferre is bringing a _date_!”

Combeferre tried to ignore the heat rising in his cheeks at the choruses of “What?” and “Ooooh” and whistling, and was incredibly glad to have the distraction of Courfeyrac stepping back into the room.

His hair was a little more combed back, his button-down exchanged for a more casual, incredibly soft looking shirt complimenting the colour of his skin, and a jacket slung over his arm.

Bahorel said something into his ear that Combeferre replied to with, “Yeah, just so you know. I’ve got to go, see you later.”

“Motherf-,” he heard and then ended the call and dropped the phone back into his pocket.

 

Courfeyrac’s smile turned wide and amused and where Combeferre had first been nervous, so very nervous at the very thought of that smile, he felt a warmth spreading through him now that was consuming and calming, and right.

“Too late to back out now,” he joked, because he felt like he could.

Courfeyrac grinned. “Wouldn’t want to.”

And Combeferre didn’t hide his face in a pillow then and just smiled back.

 

 

***

 

 

Courfeyrac didn’t seem to be all too nervous on the way to the café, a little bit maybe with the way he sometimes ran his fingers through his hair messing it up again. But even Combeferre couldn’t deny how charged the air felt, an underlying sense of _importance_ that should have been way too early into a… relationship.

The word felt weird in Combeferre’s head, too much but on the other hand not really too much at all and maybe it would have been better to take a calm, reasonable step back right here, at that thought, maybe he should. Be careful. Combeferre wasn’t one to jump headfirst into action without contemplating the consequences first, angles and possibilities and risks but Courfeyrac, talking, laughing, _kissing_ him made Combeferre not want to think about anything else.

He could perfectly imagine Enjolras’s reproachful expression trying not to show the pride underneath.

Combeferre would roll his eyes at him.

  
They had taken a taxi from the hotel to the café and Courfeyrac had filled the silence with what was basically rambling - maybe another way his nervousness showed now that Combeferre thought about it - and it made that feeling of selfish happiness and utter disbelief at the same time flare up inside him again.

When the car had come to a stop Courfeyrac asked for the third time, “Are you sure it’s alright that I don’t have a gift or anything? I mean, it’s a birthday party and -”

“Don’t worry about it,” Combeferre reassured him.

Courfeyrac made a distressed noise that was so cute that Combeferre realized too late the other man was already paying the taxi driver before he could put in a polite protest.

Courfeyrac waved him off as if he could sense Combeferre’s thoughts.

“Let me, I already feel bad enough about the gift thing,” he said but he smiled, honest and maybe a little bit bashful.  
Instead of blurting out something as ridiculous and probably nonsensical like, ‘You’re a gift,’ Combeferre instead insisted, “Really, it’s alright. There’s just going to be cake and we all chipped in for a weekend at Disneyland for two. Gavroche can choose who he wants to take.”

Courfeyrac bit down on his lip which was… very distracting. “That’s cute.”

Combeferre couldn’t help but laugh. “Not if half a dozen grown-ups try to bribe a twelve-year-old into taking them to Disneyland. It’s worse than the hunger games, believe me.”

He shuddered, for effect, and Courfeyrac smiled again which Combeferre counted as a win, every time.

“What’s your strategy then?”

Combeferre was aware enough that in the end there was no question that Gavroche was going with Éponine but still, he was going to enjoy watching the ones trying who actually considered themselves to have a shot.

“Admitting defeat when I know it’s time, to save myself?”

“Now where’s the fun in that?” Courfeyrac grinned and for a moment Combeferre was too distracted by the bright, mischievous flicker in Courfeyrac’s eyes to disagree.

 

They arrived at the café, the soft glow from inside falling out onto the slowly darkening street in the warm summer air.

Combeferre knew he should open the door, walk in and just jump in at the deep end but he allowed himself a tiny, tiny moment of selfishness. He couldn’t help it that even after the last couple of hours with Courfeyrac, just them, he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

He breathed in and reached for Courfeyrac’s wrist, gently.

Courfeyrac stilled.

Combeferre could feel his pulse under his fingertips.

“I just,” he started and didn’t know why his mouth felt dry all the sudden. He cleared his throat and said, “I just wanted to say thank you, for coming with me. And well, basically apologize ahead for… everything.”

He nodded at the door with a smile but Courfeyrac’s expression was surprisingly earnest.

“They’re your friends,” he said. “I’m sure they’re all wonderful.”

He looked at Combeferre, all convinced and warm, and Combeferre wanted to lean in and kiss him.

Combeferre leaned in when the front door flew open. He only realized that Courfeyrac had started to lean in as well when they sprung apart.

Feuilly wasn’t even looking up when he opened the door, apron tied around his waist and a checked dishtowel in his hand that looked a little bit burnt. He was already half-way back inside, calling over his shoulder, “Hey, welcome, we have a little food crisis but come in, come in.”

“It’s not a crisis!” Bahorel’s voice shouted from the kitchen. “Everything’s under fucking control!”

Courfeyrac glanced at Combeferre who shrugged, smiling helplessly but Courfeyrac only laughed and squeezed Combeferre’s hand before letting go and stepping inside.

Combeferre followed him inside trying to rein in his smile, at least a little.

Inside the tables had all been pushed to the sides except for a single one in the middle that was decorated with a colourful table cloth and surrounded by approximately a hundred balloons.

Jehan and Montparnasse sat a little in the back, Montparnasse looked like he would have rather been anywhere else and also a little red in the face and Combeferre didn’t know whether the reason was Jehan sitting right next to him or that someone probably had to blow up all of the balloons.

At the sight of Courfeyrac a small, sly smile - that was more of a twitching lip but Combeferre was feeling generous - spread over Montparnasse’s face. Jehan waved.

Before Combeferre could make introductions, there was a clattering sound in the kitchen and then Feuilly walked out backwards, hands raised, towel still in one hand.

“I’m not allowed to help with the crisis,” he announced to the room.

“Not a fucking crisis!” Bahorel shouted back.

Feuilly rolled his eyes but turned around to quickly hug Combeferre and then moved to shake Courfeyrac’s hand.

“Hi, I’m Feuilly, it’s nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too,” Courfeyrac said and Combeferre saw the exact moment the pieces clicked together in Feuilly’s mind, an eyebrow raising slowly, surprised and questioning. Before he could say anything though, luckily, Bahorel came out of the kitchen wiping his hands on a pink ‘Kiss the Cook’-apron.

“Really, everything’s under control, I _know_ how to handle birthday candles,” he huffed, then his eyes fell on Courfeyrac and a positively gleeful expression spread over his face that made Combeferre regret a couple of his life choices at once.

“Hey, man, nice to meet you,” Bahorel said, his grin with just a slight edge of predatory to it.

Courfeyrac shook his hand, fearless, but about to speak was interrupted by Bahorel saying, “Dude, did someone ever tell you totally look like-”

Feuilly coughed subtly in a way that wasn’t really subtle at all.

Combeferre took a deep breath and plastered on a smile. “Feuilly, Bahorel - this Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac - Feuilly, Bahorel.”

“Hi,” Courfeyrac said.

Feuilly nodded solemnly but he looked very much like he was trying not to laugh.

Bahorel blinked.

Combeferre closed his eyes breathing in.

Then -

“Ferre, you motherfucking rock star!”

Combeferre’s eyes flew open, Bahorel was grinning even more widely, if that was even possible, enthusiastically shaking Courfeyrac’s hand who let out an absolutely delighted laugh when Bahorel winked exaggeratedly at Combeferre.

“Oh god,” Combeferre said but kind of in a relieved way and shook his head as Bahorel grinned some more before Feuilly shoved him back into the kitchen rolling his eyes fondly.

Combeferre shot him a grateful look that he regretted almost instantly when Feuilly winked at him over his shoulder. He couldn’t help but laugh a little because god, his friends were _weird_ , and gently guided Courfeyrac towards the others, a hand on the small of his back that felt daring and careful at the same time.

Courfeyrac leaned into the touch.

“So, Courfeyrac, this is Jehan, you already talked to them, they’re working with me in the bookshop and well, you met Parnasse.”

“Nice to meet you in person,” Jehan said brightly and Montparnasse nodded, very dignified, as if the last time he had seen Courfeyrac hadn’t been when he had been inquiring about his very obvious crush with - very dignified - hearts in his eyes.

Courfeyrac simply smiled back.

“Where’s the rest of the guys?” Combeferre asked.

“Well, Gavroche and Éponine should be here any minute,” Jehan said and turned to Courfeyrac to explain, “Gavroche is the birthday boy. Enjolras has to finish up at work, apparently. And R is… late. As it seems.” There was a small smile playing around the corner of Jehan’s mouth.

Bahorel came back out of the kitchen, this time carrying a cake that was so big Combeferre could only see the top half of his face. He found himself suitably impressed. Courfeyrac whistled lowly which was adorable but maybe Combeferre was a little biased there though.

“See, it’s perfect!” Bahorel exclaimed as he put the cake on the table in the middle of the room with a flourish that made the whole thing wobble worryingly.  
Montparnasse snorted, unsurprisingly unimpressed. “He’s still not going to take you to Disneyland.”

“Shut your face, asshole,” Bahorel chirped back joyfully.

Feuilly sighed. “Language.”

“Eh, you love it,” Bahorel shrugged managing to grin in a way that was uniquely Bahorel meaning at the same time loving and absolutely obnoxious.

A knock on the door distracted from the flush in Feuilly’s face and Bahorel shooed them all into a corner with exaggerated gestures like herding a bunch of ducklings. Combeferre saw Montparnasse rolling his eyes, then caught Courfeyrac grinning. It made something in his chest flutter helplessly.

Bahorel eventually opened the door for Éponine and Gavroche who had a blindfold fastened over his eyes but still pulled it off to look exasperated.

“Shhh,” Bahorel said again and even though Combeferre couldn’t see his eyes, the way Gavroche must have been rolling them was unquestionable. “Jeez, Éps, I know where we are, put it off.”

“Alright, alright,” Éponine said with an annoyed tone that was betrayed by the fond look in her eyes. “Stop twitching!”

Combeferre didn’t know exactly what was happening when she pulled the blindfold off Gavroche’s head but one second it was spellbound silence, the next one there was a sudden explosion of confetti, more balloons and _more_ balloons, music, and Bahorel raising his arms in the universal gesture of ‘Tada!’

Combeferre probably should have seen that coming.

Gavroche rolled his eyes but he was grinning, all dimples and crooked teeth. “Jesus, you _dorks,_ ” he groaned but he was smiling too much to sound convincingly insulting.

Then his eyes fell on Courfeyrac.

 

And maybe it wasn’t exactly a gentleman move but Combeferre didn’t even try to stop laughing at the absolute shock on Courfeyrac’s face when all of sudden he had his arms full of squealing twelve-year-old barely-teenager.

 

 

***

 

 

It might have been an understatement to say Courfeyrac hadn’t expected his coffee date with a cute bookshop owner to end up in a coffee shop with a bunch of people trying not to act drunk on what he was pretty sure was spiked lemonade.

 

He might not have expected it but he didn’t really, not at all actually, minded. He had chocolate cake and possibly confetti in his hair and Combeferre who was wonderful but differently wonderful with his friends around, more open, more loudly bright and well, Courfeyrac might have also been staring a little bit too obviously judging by the elbow poking him in the side and the accompanying grin of a wannabe teenager that was far too knowing.

The only thing that was missing were the immature wiggling eyebrows which was probably a good thing because otherwise Courfeyrac knew he wouldn’t ever stop blushing.

 

A few more people were arriving when Combeferre had just wandered off to get some more cake and had been stopped on his way by Bahorel, the frighteningly build baker guy. Bahorel was talking and wiggling his eyebrows.

One of the new people who Courfeyrac recognized as Combeferre’s curly haired roommate saluted him with two fingers before making a beeline for the cake.

Another curly haired guy, this one blond and taller, looked flushed even though it couldn’t be all that warm anymore that late in the evening. He ran his hand through his already messed up hair and promptly flopped down onto the next free chair which happened to be right next to Courfeyrac with a long, heavy sigh.

Courfeyrac waited while the other man leaned back, stretched his legs and breathed out again. Only then he seemed to notice the other people in his general vicinity. He blinked at Courfeyrac, apparently confused by that fact.

“Hi,” Courfeyrac said and smiled, a charming, perfectly polite smile to start off with.

“Hi,” he got in return, slowly and equally perfectly nice apart from an examining look from sharp blue eyes, not hostile but quietly evaluating. “And you are?”

If Courfeyrac was easily intimidated by a taxing look from some piercing eyes, he wouldn’t have made it very far as an actor.

He continued to smile and held out his hand. “I’m Courfeyrac. I’m here with Combeferre.”

The other man’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

And then the change of his face was immediate, his smile widened as well, the blue of his eyes turned from sharp to bright. He grinned and sat up and enthusiastically reached for Courfeyrac’s hand. “Oh my god, hey, it’s so nice to meet you, I’m Enjolras.”

It took Courfeyrac a moment to place the name.

“You’re the best friend!” Courfeyrac said and Enjolras possibly looked even more delighted. Courfeyrac couldn’t help but return his smile. It was a nice smile that turned his face into something softer and more youthful, enthusiastic and undeniably charismatic “Combeferre told me all about you.”

Enjolras laughed. “Well, if I’m honest, he’s been a bit tight-lipped about you, so it’s really nice to actually meet you in person.”

“Same,” Courfeyrac grinned back, and meant it.

“So, how did you meet?”

“Oh, in the bookshop. It was really lucky, I guess, I walked in by accident. I didn’t even know where I was going.”

“You’re not from Paris?”

“I am actually, I grew up here but I’m just not around that often anymore, I’m here for work at the moment.”

“Oh, really, what do you do?”

 

Courfeyrac blinked. “Um.”

 

Enjolras looked at him expectantly and Courfeyrac didn’t even start wondering he was making a joke but realized he was actually, genuinely asking. He didn’t have a problem with self-confidence but also had never considered himself particularly arrogant or boasting but … well. His face was like, all over the city, basically.

“I’m… an actor.”

Enjolras nodded interestedly. “Wow, that’s great! Though, I imagine it must be a tough job? I mean well, wages in general are a catastrophe in a lot of occupational fields, if we’re being honest, right?”

“Well. They can be. I suppose.”

Enjolras hummed in agreement.

Next to Courfeyrac, Gavroche coughed in a way that sounded definitely much more like a laugh. He leaned forward, an absolutely shit-eating grin on his face that looked way more superior than a twelve-year-old had the right to be.

“Yeah,” he said conversationally, “Like, I knew this guy who dabbled a little bit in acting but it didn’t really work out. I don’t know if it was the money though, I think he was mostly just terrible at it.”

“Excuse me?” Montparnasse piped up sounding deeply affronted. Jehan slapped his arm lightly. “Be nice to the birthday boy.”

Montparnasse grumbled something indistinguishable but leaned back on his chair settling back minimally closer to Jehan in the process.

Gavroche grinned.

Enjolras didn’t seem to deem the chirping all that interesting and turned back to Courfeyrac. “So, are you doing like movies or…?”

Courfeyrac couldn’t help but still feel a little lost in the conversation. “Yeah, um, some series as well but yes, movies, mostly.”

“Nice,” Gavroche commented, earnestly composed as if he hadn’t been shaking with silent laughter behind Courfeyrac’s back only a minute ago. “So, how much did you get for the last one?”

Courfeyrac stared at him, glanced at Enjolras, back at Gavroche batting his eyelashes at him innocently and had the vague feeling that whoever tried playing that kid was unquestionably doomed.

“Um,” Courfeyrac said. “About five… million.”

Enjolras blinked.

Courfeyrac blinked back.

Gavroche started giggling uncontrollably, bright, gasping peal of laughter.

Combeferre came back with a piece of chocolate cake on a plate, two forks, and a soft smile on his face. “I see you’ve met,” he said and Courfeyrac laughed a little helplessly.

Enjolras looked utterly, kind of endearingly confused. “I think,” he said slowly frowning a little bit, “I’ve missed something.”

Gavroche broke out into another helpless fit of giggles. Combeferre smiled, a little lost but fond and warm and suddenly Courfeyrac couldn’t help but feel wildly happy and glad to be right where he was in that moment, and nowhere else.

He grinned and patted Enjolras’s shoulder comfortingly. “Don’t worry, it doesn’t matter.”

And for once, it really felt like it didn’t.

 

 

***

 


	6. Chapter VI.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein lunch is had, dude bros are fought and tension is relieved. At least kind of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I’m Alive playing in the background as I stare blankly at the wall sitting between books and paper piles of coursework slowly closing in on me*
> 
> Also warning for… misogynistic Douchebaggery of two minor characters?? They were actually titled Douche Bro I and Douche Bro II in my notes, so there's that. 
> 
> Also, enjoy!! ♡

 

 

 

***

 

 

Combeferre didn’t know if it was the buzz of alcohol that made his skin tingle, and the warmth of summer in the night or just Courfeyrac’s presence. He suspected the latter but for the sake of his own composure didn’t think too much about it.

And it was easy anyway, instead, to listen to the other man ramble, his hands gesturing widely, a little drunk and a lot gorgeou

They were walking through Paris after leaving the café when Gavroche’s eyes had started to stay closed more than open when he blinked. The heat of the day had turned into a warmth that was more pleasant, and they had silently agreed to opt for a walk instead of calling a cab, not ready to part ways just yet.   

“And I love how simple it is, you know, it’s just about life,” Courfeyrac said, his hand waving in a broad circling motion to include about everything and the world. He was talking about the book Combeferre had chosen for him back in the bookshop, the one with the sunflowers on the cover, the simple one. The adoration in Courfeyrac’s voice was a reminder of why Combeferre loved his job, his books, but it felt more important than he could remember this time, more significant than a simple task well done.

Courfeyrac sighed. “They’re just living their life like they want to and it’s… beautiful.” His smile softened a little around the edges, becoming wistful and it distracted Combeferre long enough that he realised a little too late that Courfeyrac looked at him expectantly, hopeful, waiting for an answer

Combeferre shrugged a little. “Not a lot of people like to read that though. Not enough drama.”

 Courfeyrac’s eyebrows drew a little closer to one another. Even in the light of the street lamps, his eyes seemed too bright to be just completely real. “Do you think it would be boring? No drama? A life like that?”

 Laughing a little, Combeferre shook his head. Thinking about his own life, the shop, his perfected way to make coffee in the morning, his weekly breakfast meetings with Enjolras, the answer was easier than expected when philosophising about life in the middle of the night walking down a Parisian street. “No. I don’t think so. We don’t know what will happen next, right? We don’t know if it’s going to be dramatic. Anything _could_ happen. Or it doesn’t. Neither is _boring._ You could hate it and keep expecting something else but really, what’s your life going to be like if you just keep wishing for something else to all the time?”

 "A lot of people don’t know what they’re actually wishing for,” Courfeyrac said.

Combeferre looked at his smile and could see the melancholy in it that didn't seem to really match his features. He wanted to say that sometimes you didn’t know what you wished for because you couldn’t, even in your most far-fetched thoughts and hopes, imagine it until it was right there.

 

Instead, Combeferre turned his hand, that was brushing the back of Courfeyrac’s with every step so that he could tangle their fingers together.

 

They walked together in silence for a couple of minutes, not tense, just enjoying each other’s company and Combeferre held on to Courfeyrac’s hand because no one in the dark could care if he did.

“Hey,” he said eventually. “How long are you going to be staying here?”

 Courfeyrac looked up at him, his smile as brilliant as his eyes this time - or maybe there wasn’t even a competition, Combeferre could never decide – and squeezed Combeferre’s hand.

 “A while, I guess.”

 “And what do you think about getting lunch some time?”

 “I’d love to.”

 

Combeferre breathed in, letting his heart for once do as it pleased, beating fast and happy in his chest.

 

 

***

 

 

“- at this promotional thing and we didn’t know that someone from the camera team was actually allergic to cats, so we had all these cats in like one room and the unlucky guy was just sneezing the whole time -”

Combeferre almost choked on his coffee trying not to laugh and for some reason, Courfeyrac looked incredibly pleased by that.

They were sitting in a small diner-like restaurant with a distinctly American aesthetic that fortunately didn’t extend to the food. Courfeyrac was in the middle of an elaborate description of a photo shoot he had done for some organisation saving stray animals while Combeferre was in the middle of internally debating whether it was necessary to actually eat anything of what they’d ordered or if he could just stare at Courfeyrac the whole time without doing much else. Kind of an easy decision even though the food did look delicious.

 

Courfeyrac was just about to continue talking, his gorgeous hands already doing the part, when a guy approaching the booth next to them, broad-shouldered and in a salmon tank-top, flopped off his snapback to announce loudly, “God, she’s so fucking hot.”

From the corner of his eye, Combeferre saw the two waitresses eying the table doing rock, paper, scissors.

The guy’s friend sat down opposite of him, carefully taking of his own snapback to avoid ruining his perfectly styled hair.

“Yes, I mean she was brilliant in that last movie, _Reddish_ , was it?”

Combeferre could actually feel Courfeyrac tensing where their legs were pressed together under the table.

The first guy, who apparently had no knowledge about volume control or appropriate behaviour, leant back in his seat and shrugged lazily. “Whatever, man. I mean I’d totally do her. Bet she’d be gagging for it too, I mean, how’d you think she got the part, like that’s how these people roll, man, actors, I’m telling you.”

Guy Number Two laughed a little, sounding more confused than affirmative, and Combeferre felt a lot less inclined to eat his food in favour of throwing it up or into someone’s face.

“I mean, it’s the industry, right?” the guy continued, “I’m pretty sure what kind of industry we’re talking about here if you -”

 

Before Combeferre could even so much as realise what was happening, Courfeyrac had slipped out of their booth.

“Excuse me.”

 

In any other situation, Combeferre might have been inclined to laugh at the shock on the faces of two grown men at the sight of a barely 5’6’’ world famous acting star but he was more concerned about the 5’6’’ in comparison to two times broad-shouldered probably-four-times-a-week-gym giants.

When Combeferre moved to stand up as well, however - because people tended to be right when saying his own self-preservation usually went straight out of the window when someone he cared about was messed with - Courfeyrac held up a hand, a silent gesture to stop him.

The smile on Courfeyrac’s face was wide and sharper than Combeferre had seen before. Something inside his stomach swooped which. Really shouldn’t have been the point to focus here.

 

“I didn’t mean to interrupt you guys there so rudely,” Courfeyrac said with a tone that was at the same time charming and making it abundantly clear that he had indeed, meant to do exactly that. “But I couldn’t help to overhear you talking about my good friend Floreal, I think, and her new movie, and I just don’t really appreciate people talking about her like that. She’s an incredibly nice person, humble, and dedicated to her work which, by the way, can be incredibly challenging. And it’s really not great hearing people not valuing your work especially if you put a lot of effort into it. I certainly wouldn’t presume to judge whatever _you_ do for a living as well.”

“You are…,” the second guy started but then trailed off, returning to open-mouthed staring. Combeferre felt like he hadn’t really understood a word of what Courfeyrac had said. Salmon-tank-top guy however, seemed to have gotten at least some of the implications if the colour of his face, dangerously close to that of his shirt, was anything to go by. He also looked furious.

“What the fuck, I’m not going to let a fucking f-”

 

Courfeyrac cleared his throat.

“You might want to think about how you finish that sentence,” he said, smile still firmly in place. “As I said, I have a great job, I love it. You get to know a lot of great people. Some of them are just one phone call away. And some of them are really good at what they do, too. And I wouldn’t judge _them_ as well, even if what they’re doing is, say, taking care of some really … annoying piece of trash. Whenever you want them to.”

Tank-top guy’s face, as fast as it had coloured, blanched. Courfeyrac shrugged and grinned at him innocently.

“Can I get an autograph?” Guy Number Two blurted out.

Combeferre didn’t if he was supposed to laugh at the look of betrayal Tank Top guy shot him. He was kind of too distracted by looking at Courfeyrac, the dryness in his throat and the sudden feeling that the room was way too warm.

“Dude?!” Tank Top Guy said and his friend looked helplessly confused for a moment before turning back to Courfeyrac.

“Can I get an autograph… Monsieur?”

If Courfeyrac was trying to suppress the same slightly hysterical laugh as Combeferre, he didn’t show it at all. Instead, he pulled his wallet and keys out of his pocket where a mini sharpie was attached to the key ring. “Sure, what’s your name?”

Guy Number Two frantically scrambled for a napkin. “Thank you, Monsieur. Constantin, Monsieur.”

Courfeyrac accepted the napkin with a pleasant smile. When he put it down on the table, Combeferre could read what he had written.

 

 

_Dear Constantin, get better fucking friends. Courfeyrac_

 

 

Constantin looked like he had just won the lottery, eyes slightly glazed, and grinning widely. “Thank you so much, Monsieur.”

Tank Top guy spluttered but Courfeyrac shut him off with a dismissive hand gesture like shooing off a fly.

“You’re welcome. Nice chat.”

Combeferre was still trying to process what was happening or how he couldn’t think of one word to say, except maybe a not very eloquent, definitely slightly strangled _fuck_ when Courfeyrac was already gesturing at one of the waitresses, pulling some bills out of his wallet that definitely included more than generous tip, and then practically stormed out of the coffee.

 

 

Combeferre blinked, blinked again, and scrambled up to follow him.

 

 

Outside Courfeyrac was standing with his fists clenched at his sides, breathing hard and whatever composure or nonchalance he had shown earlier was gone entirely.

Combeferre could relate to the breathlessness, even though for entirely different reasons, he supposed.

When he stepped up to Courfeyrac the other man visibly tried to force himself to be calm but his eyes were still bright and furious.

“Sorry for that. I just can’t…,” he said, unclenching one hand to run his fingers through his hair. “I just hate it this so much, sorry for ruining-”

“No!” Combeferre nearly shouted to interrupt him which was just great, amazingly smooth. He cleared his throat and said again, softer, “No. Don’t apologize. That was-”

A string of words came to his mind that was all variations of _incredible_ but mostly _really hot_ which was not a thing he was going to blurt out in the middle of a street in broad daylight, or well, ever. Even though it was true. Dammit.

But apparently, he didn’t have to even say that out loud because some of it - and as far as Combeferre was rationally assessing _his_ acting qualities ‘some’ probably meant ‘all’ - must have been showing on his face because suddenly Courfeyrac was drawing in another kind of breath that wasn’t angry at all.

“Yeah?” he said, his voice suddenly a lot deeper in a way that Combeferre hadn’t heard before and made him severely regret going out for lunch instead of staying somewhere more secluded than a Parisian street.

He swallowed, his throat again too dry and sticky at the same time, and said, “Yeah.” Because it wasn't like he had a leg to stand on here, apparently.

Combeferre didn’t know if he was just imagining the way Courfeyrac’s eyes darkened but he sure wasn’t imagining the way he bit down on his lower lip, and he couldn’t help his eyes dropping to Courfeyrac’s mouth and then they were staring at each other in the middle of the street with not even that many people anywhere but Combeferre still felt more exposed than ever, like everyone even somewhat close to him must have known what he was thinking, his thoughts written bright and bold all over his face.

 

Courfeyrac at least did apparently, because it seemed like he had to force himself to look away, turned around sharply and marched straight ahead in a way that could only be described as slightly desperately determined.

 

Combeferre followed him, feeling like he was being pulled by invisible strings and he couldn’t have cared less where they were going. Only when he realized that Courfeyrac was heading right back into the direction of the hotel, the same hot, somersaulting sensations flared up in his stomach again.

He caught up to Courfeyrac a couple of steps ahead of him, his hands clenched in the fabric of his hoodie and Combeferre would take them, tangle their fingers together if it were to help anything at all.

Like that, Combeferre forced himself to breathe normally and continue walking next to Courfeyrac who was worrying his lower lip between his teeth still which made that feeling inside Combeferre multiply by seemingly a thousand, like an inevitable chain of reaction, lips and looks and walking faster.  

 

When they got back to the hotel, Courfeyrac resolutely strived for what Combeferre suspected was a back entrance from a smaller alley where a delivery van and some other cars were parked that had seen better days. He raised a hand in greeting, waving at an elderly woman in a cooking uniform smoking a couple of feet away from the door, then slipped inside without turning around to see if Combeferre was following him. He didn’t have to.

The hallway smelled like food and the clattering of dishes, and nearby voices could be heard, but as soon as they were inside, Combeferre couldn’t help it, he didn’t think even one moment before reaching for Courfeyrac’s wrist and spinning him around, crowding him in against the impersonal white hallway wall so there was nothing more than an even an inch space between them.

He held on to Courfeyrac’s wrist, Combeferre’s other hand reaching up to his neck, the soft skin right under Courfeyrac’s jaw where the pulse was beating hard and fast under Combeferre’s palm.

 

“Can I…?” he breathed out, barely hearing his own voice over the rushing of blood in his ears and he couldn’t talk, couldn’t _think_ past the feeling of Courfeyrac’s skin under his fingers.

 

Courfeyrac’s eyes were dark and positively furious. “I swear to god, I’m going to kill you, if you don’t kiss me right now.”

 

 

Combeferre kissed him.

 

 

He let gravity pull him down the rest of the way for their lips to meet, or maybe it was Courfeyrac pulling him even closer still, pushing up hard against Combeferre and pressing their mouth together hard enough to erase all softness of lips and skin, until they had to pull back and breathe.

“Fuck,” Courfeyrac said, a wrecked sounding word that made Combeferre tighten his hand around Courfeyrac’s wrist, and only then the whole reality of the situation was crushing in, standing on a hotel floor, kissing Courfeyrac which he hadn’t even let himself think about ever getting to do again. Surreal. Hysterical, slightly.

“Do you actually know hitmen?” Combeferre blurted out because yes, maybe he was a little bit more than slightly hysterical, but he couldn’t say he minded one bit.

Courfeyrac blinked at him, eyes wide and then his beautiful, red, red mouth stretched into the most gorgeous grin.

“I guess I would have to kill you if I told you,” he whispered, lips so close that Combeferre could feel them moving against his. And then Courfeyrac stood up on his tiptoes, slinging one arm around Combeferre’s shoulders and his other hand sinking into the hair at the nape of his neck, and closed the rest of the distance again.

Courfeyrac’s fingers tightened in his hair and then he bit down on Combeferre’s bottom lip that was already feeling bruised and tingled from the sensation of their mouths pressed together. Combeferre couldn’t help gasping, startled and way, way too alright with Courfeyrac’s tongue following the path of his teeth, the way it felt like he was trying to climb inside him, always closer, and Combeferre was too surprised at first by the sound of a moan to realise it had been his own.

 

The sound was loud and sudden in the empty hallway and both of them froze.

 

Courfeyrac was the first to pull back, their lips parting with a wet sound that Combeferre wanted to remember for the rest of his life, and their breaths heaving.

The other man looked wrecked, his hair a mess, his lips just swollen enough to notice, and Combeferre didn’t know how he himself looked like, but he didn’t suspect it to be much better. 

“Do you…,” Courfeyrac started and then trailed off to swallow, hard.

 

Combeferre wanted to trace the motion of his Adam’s apple with his _teeth._

 

“Do you want to maybe come up for a while?”

And Combeferre knew that he should say no, that they hadn’t known each other for more than a few days, that he was still somewhere in the middle of being overwhelmed and confused and insecure, but he could feel Courfeyrac’s heartbeat under his fingertips.

“I shouldn’t,” he said but even in his own ears, it sounded like a question that wanted just the one answer.

Courfeyrac was still close, too close, when he asked, “Yeah?”

Combeferre couldn’t bring himself to step away, glanced at Courfeyrac’s mouth, slightly open. Courfeyrac licked his lips and swallowed again, waiting, and Combeferre took a split-second to make the decision he didn’t even try to pretend wasn’t the one he wanted.

He leaned forward and dropped a kiss on Courfeyrac’s inviting, welcoming mouth and put a great effort into keeping it short and chaste, then rested his forehead against Courfeyrac’s. He hadn’t realized he had closed his eyes, only when he opened them to find Courfeyrac’s still closed as well, long dark lashes nearly brushing his cheeks.

 “Do you think I could come up? For a while?”

 

Courfeyrac’s eyes snapped open and Combeferre didn’t look away, even though the bright green of them left him breathless.

 

For a second it was like time paused, hanging in between one moment and the other, unsure how to continue, and then Courfeyrac surged up to press their lips back together, closed-mouthed, a harder, more desperate version of Combeferre’s kiss before.

He pulled back just as abruptly. “Five minutes,” Courfeyrac said and his voice sent a shiver down Combeferre’s spine. “You’ve got to wait five minutes. Then you can… yeah.”

Combeferre nodded, without thinking, without being able to really think. “Yes.”

Courfeyrac licked his lips again, and it wasn’t even fair how beautiful he was.

Combeferre didn’t know if he would have had the strength to, but Courfeyrac eventually stepped out of Combeferre’s arms, too forceful to think it was even a little bit easier for him.

 

But Courfeyrac grinned at him, wide and happy and breath-taking, before he walked away, Combeferre looking after him, still standing in the hallway without moving.

 

 

He took a deep breath, then another, until he was able to step away from the wall and forced himself to think about nothing else but counting to 300.

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi?? I still exist? This fic still exists? Ha, aren’t you happy about that now? (I know. I love cliff-hangers. Sorry!! I love you all??)


	7. Chapter VII.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein surprises happen, Marius is just doing his best, and a famous trio kind of, maybe saves the day. Or tries to, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My exams are over, I don't know why I thought double majoring was a good idea but yay, it's break time, so have some Courferre!!

 

 

***

 

 

The door of the hotel room flew open before Combeferre could even raise his hand to knock. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of Courfeyrac, eyes wide with a slightly maniac glint so them and… not really in a good way. 

Combeferre opened his mouth, to say something maybe, he didn't know what, something that happened frequently lately, but Courfeyrac was already talking, calling over his shoulder, “Yes, yes, just a minute. I'm just… getting in zone!”

Laughter sounded from inside the room, then Courfeyrac was shoving Combeferre back with a hand clenching firmly in the front of his shirt. 

 

Combeferre didn't know what was happening. 

 

“You need to go,” Courfeyrac said and it was the first thing that registered during Combeferre's incredibly confused state of mind. 

“What?” 

Courfeyrac looked around frantically, his fingers tightening around the fabric of Combeferre's shirt. He could feel Courfeyrac’s knuckles press almost painfully against his chest. 

“I'm sorry, I didn't - I forgot I had an exclusive, I didn't look at my phone, I don't know, I can't-”

His tone was pleading, a lot desperate and it stung, a little but Combeferre put his hand over Courfeyrac’s and squeezed softly. He wanted to say, it was fine or alright or anything, but then the door opened and Courfeyrac ripped his hand away, stepped away as if he had been burned and that… that _did_ hurt.

A young man with freckles all over his face opened the door. His hair was red, a darkish colour more like Feuilly’s than Jehan’s, but he was tall and lanky wide boyish smile that showed off big white teeth. A woman stood behind him, her big black-framed glasses looked like a relic from the 50s matching the long brightly patterned skirt she was wearing along with a faintly amused smile tugged into the corner of her mouth.

The young man was laughing when he opened the door. “Courf, we really have to-,” he stopped abruptly when he turned to the hallway. His eyes landed on Combeferre. “... get started?” he finished, his tone questioning as he was looking back and forth between Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

The step of distance between them suddenly felt like miles.

Courfeyrac looked at the young man, the woman, back to Combeferre with something akin to panic in his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, of course. I was just talking to…,” he trailed off and when he looked at Combeferre his eyes were so, so bright.

Combeferre cleared his throat. “Just a fan.” He didn't know how he managed to smile. No one called him out on it. No one said anything. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to cause a hold-up.” 

Courfeyrac looked like he was about to cry for a second but caught himself quickly enough. Combeferre had to avert his eyes when he turned to the young man and woman, his smile perfect again, impeccable. 

“It's quite alright,” the woman said and it took Combeferre a moment to realise that she was talking to him. He nodded, hopefully polite enough. 

“Sorry”, Courfeyrac said, a little sheepish, sweet and charming, before turning back to Combeferre “It was nice meeting you.” He looked at a spot somewhere next to Combeferre's head.

Combeferre kind of felt like laughing, and kind of not at all. “Yeah,” he said and his voice only sounded a little bit too rough.

Courfeyrac didn't look at him, not even a second, when he turned to go back to the hotel room. He held his arm out to the young woman even though she was at least a foot taller than him. “Shall we?”

Combeferre realised he was still standing at the exact same spot where Courfeyrac had pushed him, hadn't moved at all.

 

He turned around before he had to see the door closing.

 

There was some kind of numbness in his head, his body when he walked down the hallway, his feet moving on their own accord more than anything. He tried not to think, keep his head be empty until he was somewhere not here, home, somewhere calm to take a second to register what had just happened. He tried to shake off the What-else-did-you-expect?-bitterness lingering at the corners of his mind, unsuccessfully.

 

When a door opened behind him and someone called out, “Monsieur,” Combeferre at first didn’t realise that he was meant by it, only until quick footsteps came closer. “Monsieur!”

 

Combeferre turned around to see the young man from before. He tensed, couldn’t help his thoughts suddenly imagining worst case scenarios, he was probably expected to sign something, what, a non-disclosure agreement, he couldn’t-

“I’m really sorry,” the man said, panting a little from hurrying after Combeferre. He looked a little awkward and after he stopped, rubbed a hand along the side of his neck. Combeferre tried to steel himself, tried to remember how to smile. 

“He didn’t mean it,” the other man blurted out. 

Combeferre blinked, taken aback. 

The young man gestured at the door further down the hallways as if they both didn’t know exactly who he was talking about. He was blushing a little but cleared his throat to continue determinedly, “He was surprised, I know he totally forgot about the interview. You mustn’t hold how he reacted against him. I’m sure he’s-”

“Don’t,” Combeferre interrupted him. Maybe it was impolite but he couldn’t-. He couldn’t. Feeling hurt and confusion at the same time as hope only made the first worse. “I know what you’re trying to do Monsieur-”

“Marius,” the man said smiling softly.

“Monsieur Marius.”

“Just Marius.”

“Just… alright. Marius-”

“What’s your name?”

 

Combeferre couldn’t help but stare at the other man for a moment. 

 

“Combeferre,” he said eventually. 

Marius beamed. “It’s so nice to meet you!”

Combeferre felt like he had missed some kind of turn in the conversation which meant now it was just… bizarre. Marius didn’t seem to be thinking the same though, he looked more like he was ready to do a sleepover with deep conversations and self-made cookies. Which was really not what Combeferre wanted, he just wanted to go  _ home,  _ be alone and maybe pretend that it was an accident to take that one water bottle that was actually vodka. 

He squared his shoulder, looked at Marius and said, “Yes,” following it up immediately with, “But I really should go.”

He didn’t think he needed to think up a suitable excuse. 

Marius’s face fell like his favourite dog had just died, which,  _ Jesus,  _ Combeferre didn’t  _ have to  _ feel sorry. “Oh. Oh, you don’t have to, you can-,” he started but Combeferre cut him off before he could continue, to say what? That he could wait somewhere in a supply closet? An empty hallway? 

“No, I really do,” he said and didn’t bother trying like he was still managing to sound nice. 

Marius frowned but eventually he nodded. “That’s… alright. Do you… want me to pass on something though, maybe?”

Combeferre swallowed and what was there to say except that it hurt, he was hurt, just confused, didn’t know what he was supposed to do, or to want. Thank you for the dream there? Please? Please, what. 

 

“That won’t be necessary,” he said and shoved down every emotion that was threatening to break the surface, the hurt and the disappointment. 

 

Marius looked crestfallen, Combeferre didn’t know why and he couldn’t help but feel guilty somehow, which was why he turned around and left so he didn’t have to look at the other man’s face any longer. 

 

 

***

 

 

Courfeyrac didn’t know  _ how  _ he managed to get through the interview, maybe he was just so used to smiling, being friendly, talk charmingly, that it didn’t even matter anymore what he was feeling, an automatic off-switch somewhere. The thought was terrifying. 

 

He smiled, managed that just fine and tried not to think about the look on Combeferre’s face, the confusion, how hurt he had looked. 

 

He knew he had fucked up, really badly, but he hadn’t known what to do, too surprised and caught off-guard and… panicking.  Really badly. 

The young woman doing the interview looked amused when he didn’t immediately answer a question and Courfeyrac internally went through every curse word he knew to pull himself together in front of someone from the media. She was really nice actually, funny and Courfeyrac usually loved these personal exclusive interviews; the atmosphere was nicer, calmer and it was easier to ignore the two photographers with their cameras in the corner. He leaned back and tried to channel some of the positive thoughts and just relax a little. 

 

That intention went right out of the window when the door opened and Marius stepped back inside. Courfeyrac didn’t  _ really  _ know why he had left, could think of why though and he would have hugged Marius, right there and then if he could have. But the expression on his face…

 

Courfeyrac blinked a couple of times in quick succession because his eyes burned all of sudden. He answered a question about a future project in a way that must sound a little like he was reading off a brochure. 

“Thank you,” Musichetta said after some more questions, some anecdotes and hopefully not too stilted laughter. The photographers started to disassemble their equipment, a tiny black-haired man and a dark-skinned not-haired man, Joly and Bossuet if Courfeyrac remembered their names correctly, while Musichetta put away here notepad and dictaphone. 

“It was a pleasure,” Courfeyrac smiled and it wasn’t even completely fake, under different circumstances he would have most likely meant it whole-heartedly. 

Musichetta hummed in agreement but she didn’t make a move to stand up or shake Courfeyrac’s hand. Instead, she leaned back on the sofa they were sitting on and regarded Courfeyrac with brown-golden taxing eyes. 

“Now that we’re done with the official part,” she said matter-of-factly, “Do you need someone to talk to about why you look like you just got your heart ripped out and stomped on?”

Courfeyrac nearly choked on thin air. “What?” he croaked and alright, there went the rest of his composure down the drain. 

The panic swelled up inside him again but Musichetta kept looking at him, waiting. 

“Off-record, she means,” the one photographer without the hair piped up, smiling a little uncertainly but encouraging. The other one gave Courfeyrac a thumbs-up. 

Courfeyrac stared at them, then caught Marius’s eyes who made the universal gesture of ‘I don’t know what happening?’

He turned back to Musichetta. She didn’t even look like a journalist, more like someone who collected ancient artefacts and drank herbal tea because she liked it. Mostly she didn’t look like someone who would have been insulted if Courfeyrac said no and friendly asked her to leave. 

 

Somehow that was more reassuring than anything else. 

 

“Okay,” Courfeyrac heard himself saying. “Off-record?”

“Off-record,” Musichetta nodded. 

Courfeyrac took a deep breath, and started talking. 

 

 

***

 

 

“Buddy, you got it bad,” Bossuet said and handed the container of room-service-delivered ice cream to Joly. 

Courfeyrac snorted because well, that was the problem. 

“That’s the problem,” he said and maybe he sounded a little like a petulant child. 

“It’s not a problem to like someone,” Musichetta commented with a roll of her eyes. 

Marius, who was lying next to Courfeyrac on the plush hotel carpet, raised his hands into the air. It looked weird. Like an enthusiastic lanky turtle that couldn’t get back on its front. “That’s what I said!” he said. 

Courfeyrac reached for a pillow from the sofa and started and started half-heartedly wrestling for it with Marius before he could smother himself with it. When they were done, Courfeyrac was sprawled partly across Bossuet’s legs and Marius’s right arm and didn’t particularly feel like moving. 

He sighed deeply. 

 

He had kind of lost track of who was sitting where on the floor in a hotel room eating ice cream and talking about his problems. It was nice. 

 

“I don’t know what to do,” he said, mostly to the ceiling, “I panicked earlier and it was a shit thing to do and I don’t know if he -. I just didn’t know what to do and I can’t… I can’t say it’s not going to happen again and I can’t ask him to… to just...”

“Be with you?” Marius suggested. 

Courfeyrac sighed again. “It’s not that simple. There’s all the… stuff.”

“What stuff?” Bossuet asked.

“The famous stuff,” Joly said wisely, immediately followed by, “Which is stupid. You can always look for excuses when you’re too scared to take a chance.”

“I’m not too scared.” Courfeyrac knew it was bullshit while he was still saying the words. The others looked at him accordingly unconvinced. 

It wasn’t that he was scared because he believed that Combeferre only wanted to be with him because of his fame or his money, definitely not. He was scared because he didn’t know if he could ask so much, the pressure, the media, distance and everything, of someone after such a short time, or ever really, not even of someone as generous and gentle as Combeferre. Or maybe especially not of someone like Combeferre. 

 

Maybe he was just too scared of being hurt himself too. 

 

“There’s this friend we have,” Bossuet started, sounding contemplating. Joly made a noise of agreement and continued, “Oh yes, he’s great.”

“So great,” Bossuet said. 

Courfeyrac frowned. “That’s… great?”

Bossuet nodded. “Yes. Anyways, he was head over heals for that one guy.”

“Totally gone on him,” Joly added. 

“Totally. And he didn’t do anything about it for ages.”

“Really, like ages.”

“But then he did. I mean, it wasn’t really planned. Or elegant.”

“Kind of the opposite,” Joly said and then they both started giggling and didn’t stop. 

Musichetta rolled her eyes again but she looked so fond, something in Courfeyrac’s chest ached. 

 

“Was it good?” he asked quietly. 

Musichetta smiled down at him from where she was leaning against the sofa, her dark and curly hair a stark contrast to the white of the cushions, her eyes warm and gentle.   “They’ll be just fine.”

And it sounded a lot like, ‘You will be.’

 

Courfeyrac closed his eyes and wondered if the actual question should have been if it was worth it but then, he didn’t think anyone but himself would be able to answer that. 

 

 

***

  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was thinking whether I should apologise at the beginning, then I thought, eh no spoilers so… now I am sorry? (Also there's now chapter count?? That's a good thing right?? It means there's more and actually like, a complete plan!!)


	8. Chapter VIII.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Courfeyrac makes a decision, coffee is had and a lot of things are said, and others are not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter of sentence breaks, I guess but -  
> Enjoy?! ♡  
> (Also I'm updating from my phone so all weird page breaks and some mistakes I didn't see are probably because of that, sorry.)

 

 

***

 

When he was standing there, in front of Combeferre’s door, Courfeyrac realised suddenly that it was late. Very late. Probably way too late to ring someone’s doorbell because normal people were asleep, most likely, and not making their way through what felt like half of Paris to confess their love to someone.

Or well, not love, it was way too early to talk about love but something along the lines of it, he supposed.

It was way too late because it was basically in the middle of the night. And also because Courfeyrac had already rang the doorbell.  
He knew he would have turned around again hadn’t he rang right after getting out of the cab. It was a pretty good thing that he wasn’t too much of an asshole to wake up his driver because taking a cab entailed that you had to get out of it at some point.

Probably a good thing.

It was kind of depending on Combeferre, he guessed, because otherwise Courfeyrac would be left standing somewhere in Paris, in front of a closed door at like … half past one. Not exactly a promising thought.

Fortunately, Courfeyrac didn’t have enough time to worry about what he would have done then because the door chose that moment to open.

Combeferre blinked at him, sleepily and disoriented, a small, surprised smile appearing on his face for a second when he looked at Courfeyrac as if he was a dream, and Courfeyrac’s heart was going to jump out of his chest with how hard it was beating.  
But after that second, Combeferre’s face fell like he realised Courfeyrac was not a dream because his entire expression became closed-off and empty. He didn’t say anything and why would he, Courfeyrac was the one who had shown up at _Combeferre’s_ door and he should probably really say something. Only that words suddenly felt like difficult, tiny things, all stuck in Courfeyrac’s throat.

“I’m sorry,” were the first ones that made it out of his mouth which was good, this was good, this was why he had come here, good start.

Combeferre’s surprise was obvious, the startled look on his face making him seem younger, more vulnerable and affected and maybe it was fucked up but somehow that made it easier for Courfeyrac to keep going, push through the tightness in his throat and his chest.

“I’m sorry about earlier. And now, actually, like later. It’s very late.” And good god, this was not good.

Courfeyrac took a deep breath and tried to think of everything he felt, the confusion and of being afraid, and how none of it mattered really, when he stood in front of Combeferre like this.

“I’m really sorry about what happened at the hotel. It was a terrible situation and I reacted poorly because I started to panic. Not because I’m ashamed of you or of being seen with you or… being with you. It’s… You know we haven’t known each other for a long time and it’s in the worst possible moment that I remember because whenever I’m with you, when it’s just _us,_ I don’t feel like that. At all. I feel like… I like you. I just really like you and I know that people who are close to me get dragged into the whole… media, celebrity stuff and sometimes that’s all they want. I’m not thinking that about you, god no, but it’s just, sometimes people think they want that or they think they’d at least be okay with it but it’s not… easy. Being with me is not, and _I_ am not. And I don’t know what or how much of that, me, you actually want and I didn’t know what I wanted when they stood there with the cameras like, right around the corner. So, I panicked. Because I actually do know, what I want, it’s just really fucking scary to think about it because this, us could be the worst idea in the world but also like, the best. It might be the best the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And I would, really, _really_ like to get a chance to find out. If you do too.”

Courfeyrac stopped then because he had used every word possible to drag his heart out through his throat.

Combeferre stared at him and every moment that passed was worse, worsening the sinking, terrible feeling in Courfeyrac’s stomach to the point where he felt like he was going to be sick.

Eventually, he couldn’t stand the silence any longer, he had never been all that good with silence, never tense silence, he hated that.

“Or I could…,” he started, forcing the words out reminding himself that he had no right to expect anything. “I could call back the cab and … well, leave, I mean…”

He tried to crack a smile but knew it fell short, unsure if he succeeded at all. It didn’t feel like it.

Combeferre still wasn’t saying anything and Courfeyrac… couldn’t stand to look at him any longer.

He turned around however, he couldn’t take even another step forward, away before a hand wrapped around his wrist spinning him around, back and then Combeferre’s mouth was on his, hard and soft lips, and Courfeyrac couldn’t help but completely melt into the kiss without a moment of hesitation like the had been doing this for years, like the last time hadn’t been just a few hours ago.

Somehow his hands found their hold in the front of Combeferre’s shirt, Courfeyrac could feel the fabric and print under his fingers and didn’t plan on letting go, ever. Even if it might turn into a bit of an inconvenience but he couldn’t have cared less about that when Combeferre traced the seam of his lips with his tongue, using his gasp to push in further, kissing Courfeyrac until his head was spinning, heart beating fast and he felt warm, hot all over.

He knew he made a stupid half-swallowed sound of gratitude that Combeferre was still in a state of mind present enough to pull Courfeyrac into the house away from the street and further down the hallway through another door.

Courfeyrac had never really seen the appeal of ground floor apartments but he might re-evaluate that opinion. Later. He was too lost in kissing Combeferre, in the push and pull of their bodies to do anything but hold on.

A sound of protest rose in his throat when Combeferre started to pull away but the other man didn’t seem all too inclined to stop either because he immediately leaned back in, pressing Courfeyrac against the door falling shut, and that was… that was really, really good, the solid wooden surface against Courfeyrac’s back and Combeferre strong against his front, holding on to Courfeyrac, holding him up until he was sure he couldn’t have been able, didn’t want to move anywhere else but to his knees.

Maybe the floor.

Courfeyrac didn’t care until Combeferre did lean back, just a fraction so their mouths stopped touching but not sharing air, breaths. He looked open, half disbelieving, half happy. All the things Courfeyrac felt mirrored in himself.

Combeferre smiled, an almost unconscious seeming little thing that made Courfeyrac heart jump and his breath catch.

Somehow Combeferre managed to make one of Courfeyrac’s hands release their grip on Combeferre’s shirt and he intertwined their fingers between them.

“This is okay?” he said, sounded wrecked, sounded at the same time like the answer and the question.

Courfeyrac didn’t trust his voice and anyway, he had talked enough and, somehow, they both had.

He nodded and when Combeferre leaned back in, the smile still on his lips, Courfeyrac let himself fall, pushed and falling into the direction of the bedroom, his heard and thoughts filled with Combeferre, to the brink.

 

***

 

Combeferre woke up slowly, feeling warm, to a careful nudge against his side and the smell of coffee.

When he opened his eyes, he was faced with the sight of Courfeyrac with two cups in his hand as he just settled back down on the bed, barefooted, in a too big shirt with a giant face of Nicola Tesla on it.

Combeferre was still half-asleep so he didn’t manage, didn’t even try to stop it when he felt a slow, probably incredibly sappy smile spread on his lips.

“You’re wearing my shirt,” he heard himself saying and almost didn’t recognise his voice, rougher, happy.

Courfeyrac laughed a little and wriggled his nose so the freckles all over his skin danced. “Yeah, I don’t know what I was thinking, it’s pretty hideous.”

Combeferre failed most miserably to reign in his grin. “Hey, that’s a great shirt,” he said and then because he could, “You look great in that shirt.” He might have been more embarrassed at the fondness soaking the words had he been more awake. Like that, he only revelled in Coufeyrac’s smile, the slight blush on his cheeks, and moved a little so that the other man could sit next to him, easily fitting himself against Combeferre’s side, his toes against Combeferre’s thighs under the sheets.

Combeferre sat up a little when Courfeyrac handed him one of the cups, letting their fingers brush. Clearly on purpose if his grin was anything to go by.

A warm, content feeling settled comfortably in Combeferre’s stomach as he leaned into Courfeyrac’s side, his skin soft against his own.

“Thanks,” he said and Courfeyrac only hummed in response, one hand sliding down to tangle the fingers of their free hands together like that was how they belonged, and maybe they did.

They drank their coffee silently, just basking in each other’s company until the last traced of sleep vanished from Combeferre’s limbs and mind. He put his half-finished cup of coffee on the nightstand, leaning over Courfeyrac in the process, who smothered a laugh in the skin of Combeferre’s biceps and put his own cup down safely on the floor.  
Combeferre kissed him slowly because he wanted to and because he couldn’t help himself, not with Courfeyrac in his bed, wearing his shirt which… definitely had to go.

It might have made Combeferre’s possessive side, that he hadn’t really been aware of, feel incredibly satisfied with itself but also there was a giant face of Nicola Tesla staring at him which was a bit weird.

Courfeyrac was grinning when he pulled the shirt over his head at the insistent pressure of Combeferre’s hands, leaving his curls in an even more sleep-mussed disarray. He was grinning still when Combeferre leaned down to kiss him again.

The kiss was just losing its slow morning languidness when someone rang at the door.  
Combeferre had to laugh at Courfeyrac’s exaggerated groan.

“No, no, no. Stay,” he said with a way too adorable pout for a grown man and Combeferre thought how much he would have loved to do just that but –

“It’s probably just my roommate who forgot his keys. I just have to go let him in, I’ll be right back, I promise.”

Grantaire hadn’t been home when Combeferre had returned the evening before and he hadn’t heard him coming back in later either. As much as he wanted to just stay, in bed with Courfeyrac for the rest of the day, life, letting a probably tired, most likely in some capacity still drunk Grantaire wait in front of the front door like a grumpy cat, well, Combeferre was still trying to be a good human.

Courfeyrac flopped back onto the bed with another theatrical groan and Combeferre was still grinning like a madman when he located a pair of plaid boxer shorts at the foot end of the bed to tug on, and headed out of the apartment.

The connection to the front door to open it from their apartment hadn’t been working for as long as Combeferre could remember living in it but it was only a short way on the ground floor. He hadn’t bothered putting on a shirt because really, he was sure the people in the house had seen worse on weekday mornings, Combeferre certainly had. He didn’t even want to start thinking about Grantaire or what things had happened to make him come back home at almost noon.  
Anyway, he was thinking about some remark he could make because he still wasn’t going to let Grantaire go easily after ringing Combeferre out of bed.

 

When he opened the door, it wasn’t Grantaire in front of it.

The first flashlight caught Combeferre by surprise, the following seemingly unending stream of flashes, clicking cameras and voices didn’t stop. Combeferre couldn’t keep track of how many there were.

“Monsieur-”

“Is it true that-“

“-was seen entering this-“

“Do you know-”

Combeferre was frozen, shocked, for too many seconds before he could do nothing more than just move, move back and throw the door closed too harshly and too loud. Not loud enough to drown out all the noise, voices from the outside.

 

His hands were shaking

 

“Everything alright?” he heard Courfeyrac’s voice.

Combeferre couldn’t help but flinch and looked up to where Courfeyrac was sticking his head out of the apartment. He was still smiling until he saw the look on Combeferre’s face which must have shown clearly that everything was the exact opposite of alright.

“I don’t know how-,” Combeferre started but he could feel his breath stuck in his throat with panic and shock and there were people, people in front of his house, who-

“There are-,” he started again but stopped because he didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what they wanted, how anybody could have found out-

Courfeyrac’s hand was pressing against his cheek. The other man was dressed, pants, a shirt – not Combeferre’s. There was confusion and worry in his eyes and Combeferre couldn’t look at him because this was exactly what Courfeyrac had been scared off, the suddenness, the attention, everything –

Stepping away from Combeferre, Courfeyrac moved to open the front door before Combeferre could make any move to stop him.

He immediately slammed the door shut again.

The flood of noise made a new wave of nausea well up inside Combeferre.

Courfeyrac recoiled forcefully, several steps back into the hallway, away from the door and white as a sheet. “Fuck.”

His eyes were the same, wide and panicked, like the day before and suddenly Combeferre could understand, more than before because he felt exactly the same, and he knew, thought he knew what Courfeyrac had meant with the media in his life but-

There were people in front of his house who had shouted, were still, and had taken photos and … Combeferre’s hands were still shaking.  
Courfeyrac was shaking as well, cursing under his breath in a way that would have Combeferre thinking he was more angry than anything else, hadn’t it been for the open, undeniable shock on his face and he realised how Courfeyrac never, not when it mattered, seemed to hide his emotions.

“Hey,” Combeferre found himself saying, to comfort, to do anything. “Hey, it will be fine.”

He didn’t know who he was trying to calm down but as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realised that they weren’t the right ones for Courfeyrac.

“Fine?” The other man stared at Combeferre disbelievingly. “Fine?! There are reporters and photographers right in front of the door and they’re not the ones who’ll want a nice chat, they’re here to skin you and me alive, down to the bone.”

And Combeferre…. Combeferre didn’t know what to answer to that because saying it didn’t matter would not have been true and he knew it now, clearly. He thought Courfeyrac did too because he didn’t even seem to expect and answer, pacing up and down with his hand running through his hair, making it a mess.

“I’m sorry.” Combeferre didn’t know why he said it or he did but he didn’t want to know, only that not saying it was more suffocating than anything else, than the way he couldn’t really breathe. But again, the words were wrong – and what had happened to Combeferre’s words? – because Courfeyrac was looking at him in horror and –

“No! No, I didn’t call them here, I wouldn’t.” And just the possibility Courfeyrac would think that made Combeferre feel sick.

Next to the panic, he now did see anger in Courfeyrac’s face.

“What for then?” he asked. “That you can’t-”

He stopped and Combeferre didn’t know what he had wanted to say but it felt like it would have been right anyway.

Combeferre couldn’t remember ever feeling that helpless.

“I-” he started but he didn’t know what to do when Courfeyrac was standing in front of him, scared and angry, and Combeferre himself was too shook to even speak, move. Something of that must have shown on his face because he couldn’t hold back his emotions and Courfeyrac didn’t, not with him.

He looked defeated, devastated.

“This was-,” he said but stopped in time that the word ‘mistake’ was hanging in the air, a question that had two possible answers, and then there was someone pounding at the door.

Both of them flinched.

“Courf!” A female voice sounded more clearly through the door over the rest of the noise, and relief washed over Courfeyrac’s face but only for a moment because he was looking from the door back to Combeferre.

Combeferre tried to speak but he couldn’t say a word, the shock still in his bones, his lungs working on suffocating him, and he didn’t know how much time passed, until Courfeyrac nodded.

He stepped past Combeferre, not looking at him, to open the door to the voices and the flashlights. Combeferre only saw a small blond woman with a stormy face full of anger pulling Courfeyrac with her, throwing a hoodie at him and then…

 

The door closed.

 

Combeferre realised his hands were shaking, still.

 

He couldn’t control his limbs as he sank down against the door, to the floor and tried to control at least his breathing at least, every breath anew for minutes, maybe hours.

Later – much later – there was the sound of keys rattling at the door and then someone tried to shove the door open struggling against the weight of Combeferre.

“What in damn hell is going the fuck on?” Grantaire spit out as he muscled his way inside but stopped when he saw Combeferre.

The expression on his face changed immediately, turning the edges soft with worry and before Combeferre knew what was happening, could have asked for it, Grantaire was kneeling down next to him and enveloped him in a hug, solid and steady against Combeferre’s trembling.

His hair was too long, black and curly but long, and he smelled weirdly familiar in an unexpected way but Combeferre still sunk into his arms, leaning into him until he stopped shaking.

 

It took him a long time.

 

***

 

  
Six months passed.

 

  
***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise sincerely for the emotional roller-coaster quality of this chapter. I feel like there should have been a warning sign but I didn't want to spoil things so.... sorry?


	9. Chapter IX.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Courfeyrac has missed Paris (nothing else, okay?), the weather pretty much sums up the general emotional state of certain people, and Enjolras kindly has enough of everyone’s bullshit (thank you very much).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, here’s a new chapter…. I hope you forgave me for the last one? Enjoy?!! ♥

 

 

 

 

 

***

 

Six months later

 

***

 

For Courfeyrac staying in one place for a longer amount of time always felt weird, after all the years of doing the exact opposite. He was used to the hotels by now, the buses or the trailers and he didn’t require a lot of a place, no matter which part of the world he found himself in that week.

Still, nothing could compete with the feeling of returning to Paris after spending time away. Everywhere else was just somewhere, Paris was home, no matter if he was only staying for three days and a half.

Courfeyrac had been thinking about maybe getting a permanent place here – and how weird that he was still officially living with in his parent’s house – but lately permanent felt like an even more far-fetched thought than it already had before.

They weren’t even staying in the same hotel as last time but somehow, Courfeyrac was glad about that. Kind of. It meant he didn’t have to think what happened in the last hotel or by default, the last time he had been in Paris. Only, of course, he was thinking about it anyway.

 

Dammit.

 

He ended up staring at his phone instead of wistfully out of the window after throwing his bag onto the bed, firing off a tweet about how nice it was to be in the city for filming – not really a lie – without any thought at the back of his mind about who might read the tweet – maybe a lie. (Totally.) He answered a message from his mother, matching her enthusiasm about emojis unabashedly and then continued aimlessly scrolling through his messages, further down, down, down until he realized he was looking for one particular chat that hadn’t been continued for roughly six months. And a week and three days.  

Courfeyrac stopped, his thumb hovering over the contact of a co-star from three movies ago, without moving further, refusing to scroll any further down.

He felt his resistance slipping but fortunately, Cosette chose the moment to open the door. She was already talking once she had stepped into the room.

Courfeyrac remembered her telling him once that she never had anyone answering her when she was younger and living with some god-awful foster parents, so she had just started answering herself. Courfeyrac thought it was pretty heartbreaking so he mostly ignored that it was also a slightly weird thing to do.

“So, I invited Chetta and the boys to the press conference like you wanted and she, Joly and Bossuet asked if we all wanted to meet for drinks or something while we’re here. Marius and I looked at your schedule -”

Cosette stopped as she took in the sight of Courfeyrac. It must have been a pretty sorry one, going by her frown. It was a pretty serious frown. “Are you alright?”

Courfeyrac tried for a smile. “I’m fine.”

Cosette’s frown stayed firmly in place.

“Fine…,” she repeated like she knew exactly that he was the opposite of fine but apparently he didn’t seem so miserable as of yet that she felt the need to press the issue which… was an improvement, Courfeyrac supposed.

He cleared his throat. “That um, sounds nice, with Chetta and all. We should do that. When were you thinking of?”

Adding to the already enormous amount of gratitude Courfeyrac felt for Cosette and her existence on a daily basis, she let him change the subject without any further comment.

“Well, there’s nothing planned for today because we just got here, so we could do this evening or some time tomorrow after filming.”

Courfeyrac bit down onto his lip without being able to control the impulse. “Could we do tomorrow? I just wanted… to go outside a little today.”

The critical way with which Cosette regarded him, made Courfeyrac feel a little bit like a dead fly under a microscope.

“Alright,” she said eventually, slowly. “Do you want someone to drive you somewhere?”

The words were chosen carefully. They weren’t talking about how Courfeyrac wasn’t a big fan of taking cabs anymore since they had figured out that the last he had been in Paris, the driver had been the one telling the reporters about his location. Courfeyrac knew they were avoiding talking about the ‘thing’ in general and any way possible. They had been, ever since it became clear he had to go back to Paris for filming – and why must all movies somehow, at one point, always be set in Paris anyway?

 

Courfeyrac was aware too, that they were only not talking about it because he wasn’t ready, not because Cosette thought it was the best way to handle the situation. But this was about _his_ feelings, so what.

Repression was the perfect therapy, very hip in the USA, or so he had heard.

 

“It’s fine, I’ll just take a walk or something,” he said and Cosette looked at him. Courfeyrac looked back at her. No one said anything about how it had been snowing in the morning and the temperatures were definitely below freezing. Courfeyrac looked at Cosette, Cosette looked back at him.

Eventually, she nodded. “Fine. But take a scarf, I’m sure Marius didn’t put getting sick in your schedule.” There was fondness in her voice, but Courfeyrac could hear the worry too.

“I promise,” he said.

When Cosette had left, Courfeyrac scrolled back up on his phone to the recent message threats and pulled up one of the most frequently used ones. He quickly typed in a text.

 

From you: _just at the hotel, flight was okay~~~ you got a minute to meet up today??_

 

He didn’t have to wait long for a response.

 

To you: _I finish today at noon, meet me at the office?_

From you: _thanks,_ i’ll _be there!!!_

 

 

***

 

 

Courfeyrac took the metro.

He didn’t even remember the last time he had taken the metro but it was still as stuffy and overcrowded as he had suspected. Also, no one had recognized him which made him wonder why he wasn’t using the metro more often.

Outside it was cold and muddy, the snow from the morning already turning the streets into brown and gray messes. He couldn’t understand how people were thinking that _any_ city could still have its charm like that, freezing and soaked, but then, people were weird about Paris. Hell, Courfeyrac himself was weird about Paris when the city, even like this, was still his favourite place to be in the world.

He sat down on a frozen bench at the edge of what was probably a small green area in the summer for business people to smoke their cigarettes on their lunch break.

 

Settling in to wait for a little while, Courfeyrac fished his phone out of the depths of his coat pocket. He was about the send another text when someone dropped down next to him on the bench with a long, deep sigh.

 

“Hey,” Courfeyrac said.

He didn’t get an answer, Enjolras simply handed him a paper cup. It was warm and smelled vaguely like coffee.

“Thanks,” Courfeyrac said.

Enjolras huffed. “Don’t thank me yet, it’s from the office. The coffee maker deserves a charge for bodily harm.”

Courfeyrac couldn’t help but laugh a little which had Enjolras glancing over at him. His look felt a little like Cosette’s, scrutinizing but in a nice way, somehow.

“How are you?” Enjolras asked.

“Good. Good,” Courfeyrac said and took a sip of the coffee. It was terrible. But it burned down his throat, warm like friendly, slightly coffee-flavored ethanol. “This is good.”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow like saying ‘You don’t have to pretend.’ Whichever he meant, Courfeyrac ignored it.

“And how are you?” he asked instead.

“Fine,” Enjolras said, not unfriendly – per se – but Courfeyrac couldn’t help thinking the other man was waiting for something. Enjolras good at meaningful silence, Courfeyrac had gotten to realize after they had started texting since Gavroche’s birthday. Even after… everything. 

Mostly Enjolras’s silences were full of disapproval. It was even more impressive in person.

 

Courfeyrac sighed. “How’s…,” he started but trailed off, he didn’t know why. Probably self-preservation which was ridiculous because even Enjolras’s company made his heart ache and it nothing to do with him.

“What do you think?” Enjolras’s eyebrow moved up a little, more disapproval and it would have been fascinating how much a quarter of an inch could make a difference if it hadn’t been directed at Courfeyrac.

He let out another sigh. He didn’t want it to sound more pathetic than the last one but he was pretty sure he failed. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

Enjolras looked at Courfeyrac a little longer but the eyebrow returned to its normal position, softening something on the other man’s face. He leaned back, tension draining from his shoulders but more in a slumped, slightly defeated way – as far as Enjolras would allow himself to seem defeated -  not in a nice and relaxed way. He drank some of his coffee, and didn’t even blink.

“He’s not been great,” was what he said eventually. It made Courfeyrac’s heart twist painfully and he had to close his eyes for a moment to keep it, himself together and breathe. When he opened them again, Enjolras was looking at him but didn’t say anything else.

 

“Still?” Courfeyrac asked quietly.

 

Enjolras huffed but not in a mean way. “Have you been?”

It wasn’t a question that needed an answer because Courfeyrac knew it was written clearly all over his face. He thought he could have hidden it, made it less obvious but he didn’t want to. He was sick of it.

No, he hadn’t been great. He hadn’t been great for a while now. A long while. Not bad, not really all the time, but not…

Courfeyrac drank some more of the coffee and even though it burned down his throat it made, it made him feel only a little less cold on the inside.

 

 

***

Combeferre was lying on the knitted rainbow rug in their bathroom and stared at the ceiling.

The weight of the fishbowl on his chest was grounding. He could see the goldfish from the corner of his eye. He knew it was judging him but it was still a better company than a lot of people because it kept its thoughts to itself. If by choice or by necessity, Combeferre didn’t really care about. Other individuals were not that accommodating.

 

Speaking of which.

 

Combeferre heard the door open and footsteps coming into the bathroom, stopping abruptly after two.

 

“What are you doing?” Enjolras asked.

 

When Combeferre looked at him, he was upside down.

Combeferre shrugged. It felt weird while lying down, his shoulders scraping against the rug.

 

“Philosophising,” he said.

 

Enjolras’s judgmental frown was impressive, even the wrong way around. “You’ve been weird. Weirder. You need to do something. Talk to someone.”

At some point, Combeferre had stopped counting how many times they have had this very one-sided discussion.

“I do,” he said, jostling the fishbowl on his chest, just a little, for emphasis.

The goldfish didn’t look all too thrilled about that or Combeferre’s general existence.

“I’m done watching you mope.” Enjolras sounded determined, like always, and Combeferre sighed deeply. “I know.”

He knew it was time to stop being miserable, it had been months but sometimes there were moments he just… couldn’t. He was fine most of the times, really, but every other day – hour? Minute? – Combeferre found himself thinking about how different things could have been, had he done things differently, had –

 

He stopped before he let himself think the name.

 

“Courfeyrac is back in the city,” Enjolras said.

Combeferre glared at him. “Why?”

Not why he was back in the city but why Enjolras bringing it up. Combeferre knew Enjolras understood what he meant because his expression turned into that very Enjolras-particular brand of determined stubbornness that didn’t bear anything good for people caught in the wrath of it.

“Because,” Enjolras said firmly. “It makes me sick. That you’re miserable. That you keep wondering what could have been and then you keep being miserable because you’re not doing anything about it.”

Combeferre turned his eyes back to the ceiling and tightened his grip on the glass of the fishbowl as much as the smooth surface let him.

He bit down on his lip and forced out, “I was hurt.”

Because he had been. It had been hard to admit, to himself and others, that he had been heartbroken.

 

Enjolras shut the door. Surprisingly, the clicking sound when it fell shut was soft and gentle. Enjolras’s voice was too. “No, you weren’t hurt. You _are._ ”

 

And that… pretty much summed it up.

 

Because Combeferre had been hurt, yes, but it wasn’t what mattered most. It mattered that he was so, still. He wasn’t over it. Maybe he was closer to being over it than months ago but still, he wasn’t. How could he have been? He hadn’t gotten a chance for closure, he had been left alone with his thoughts and his feelings and the shreds of his broken heart. He hadn’t gotten a chance for something, anything else.

 

And now Courfeyrac was back in the city.

 

“Goddammit,” Combeferre murmured.

He gently placed the fish bowl complete with goldfish next to him on the bathroom floor. Then he braced himself up on his elbows. When he was sitting, still half lying, the door opened again.

Grantaire, sleep-rumbled and half asleep still, squinted at them obviously surprised by their presence. He looked from Enjolras, still in his winter coat, to Combeferre sitting on the rug in pajama pants, fuzzy socks and nothing else, to the clearly exasperated goldfish.

He blinked once, twice. “Okay. I’m going back to bed.”

Enjolras frowned. “It’s like 3 in the afternoon.”

Seemingly unimpressed by the deduction, Grantaire only shrugged. “Feel free to join me,” he said, then shuffled away.

Enjolras spluttered. “It’s a free country, I can do what I want?!”

Combeferre honestly debated just going back to lying on the rug. The world was easier to deal with that way.

 

He said so, and closed his eyes to Enjolras’s indignant and the fish’s disapproving glare.

 

***

 

 


	10. Chapter X.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein some Amis and Amis-affiliated people try to get two idiots to talk to each other and eventually, two idiots talk to each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: *sweating while trying to get update done before semester starts again and I’ll find myself buried in work because I’m taking too many classes as always*  
> Enjoy... the chapter, yes.

 

 

*** 

 

In a sudden burst of knowledge about modern popular culture, Enjolras knew where the crew for Courfeyrac’s movie was filming their final instalment of the new movie. That as well as the name of the head of security.

Combeferre would have thought something fishy was going on there if Grantaire hadn’t helped and well, it was a fact that Grantaire knew a lot of weird people in Paris so Combeferre wasn’t surprised there.

Which was why, the next day he found himself on the metro with enough time to seriously consider if he was absolutely, totally crazy for taking the morning off of work and instead crashing a film set.

Combeferre had been under the assumption that his life was pretty uneventful. He was probably going to have to reassess said assumption.

Enjolras had given him the name of the street that was apparently closed off to public for the filming and when he turned around the corner, Combeferre nearly stumbled into a person that turned out to be very tall, very muscular and most likely some sort of security guy if the big, bold letters on his uniform were anything to go by.

“Excuse me, Monsieur, this street is being closed for public access, only residents allowed.”

Combeferre mentally reassembled the parts of his brain that had been scattered by nearly running a guy over and other happenings of the morning. “Oh, no, I mean yes, I know.”

 

Maybe it wasn’t his best day.

 

“Are you a resident, Monsieur?” The security guy asked patiently, nice enough to take pity on Combeferre.

“Well, I am not, no.”

“Then I am sorry to say, I can’t let you through here, Monsieur.”

“Look, I know you have no reason to believe I’m not a crazy person...”

“No, I do not.”

“I know. But-”

 

“Is there a problem?” another voice interrupted Combeferre’s admittedly kind of desperate attempt at convincing an apparently very stoic human brick wall into allowing him to take a step forward. Combeferre was almost glad someone else was taking over the talking until he realised that the small, blond woman stepping up to them seemed familiar. Familiar because she had nearly glared him to death about six months ago while pulling Courfeyrac away from him and a dozen reporters.

Combeferre’s heart sank along with the chances of getting anywhere near close to being let through. God, what had he been thinking?  

“I hope not,” the security guy said. There was a little frown starting to edge itself between his eyebrows.

The woman’s eyes fell on Combeferre. From the way her mouth tightened, it was pretty obvious she had recognized him too.

But then, all of sudden, her face transformed with a blinding smile.

“Oh, there you are!” she beamed at Combeferre, stepped forward to grab his hand enthusiastically and leaned in to kiss his cheek. Combeferre was too surprised to do anything but let his hand be shaken and his cheek be kissed. “God, we were waiting for you, Monsieur. You’re pretty late, you know that?”

She let go of him and mock-disapprovingly punched Combeferre’s shoulder. The punch was way harder than expected and ripped him out of his shocked motionless state.

“Wha-,” he started but the death glare was back, even more intimidating with the brilliant smile. “I mean… I am sorry, just… the traffic in this weather, right?”

 

Combeferre was pretty positive he might just be the worst actor in the world.

 

Or maybe he wasn’t because the security guy nodded, very seriously. “Terrible.” And then he stepped aside so the woman could pull Combeferre forward with a vice grip around his forearm.

“Have a good day!” Combeferre called back to the security guy because he might be a human disaster but he could at least be polite.

As soon as they were out of earshot, he turned to the woman.

“Thank you,” he said. He still didn’t know what was going on but it felt like the most important thing to say.

She seemed less inclined to think so.

“Hm,” she said, nothing more but she was still not letting go of Combeferre’s arm. She looked at him long and evaluating and he wondered if he should say something about how his blood circulation was kind of constrained but then she squeezed his arm, with finality, and let go.

Combeferre tried not to let out a breath too obviously.

The woman held her hand out again, giving Combeferre enough time to decide to take it this time.

“I’m Cosette.”

“Combeferre.”

Cosette nodded and, still looking at Combeferre with frightening intensity, let go of his hand. “Combeferre. Well, it’s good to have a name to the reason for so much trouble.”

 

It was like a punch in the face, delivered with a sweet smile.

Combeferre might have panicked a little then. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t tell anyone, I didn’t know-,” he rambled but Cosette cut him off with the easy efficiency that came from a lot of practice in making people stop talking.

 

“I’m not talking about the reporters back then even though that _was_ a mess to take care of.” She waved her hand dismissively and Combeferre… really was thrown for a loop here.

“Right,” he said slowly.

Cosette nodded. Another one of those taxing looks had Combeferre swallow for no reason.

“Are you here to break his heart?” she asked, calmly, perfectly neutral like asking for the weather forecast.

Combeferre stared at here “ _What?_ ” He hadn’t expected to be asked that, to even think that this could be something he could _want._

Cosette was already talking again, still calm and almost nonchalant but her eyes were hard. “I just wanted to know in case I should better kick you out now and believe me I’m not going to be as nice to you as Jean.”

It took Combeferre a moment to realize that she was talking about the security guy which… was not the point to focus on.

“No, I…,” Combeferre said because at least he knew that was how the answer started. It was the rest, the rest was more complicated because even he wasn’t sure about the rest. Cosette obviously waited for him to continue and Combeferre just- “I just want- I need to talk to him. I didn’t tell him- We didn’t even talk. He deserves that.”

Combeferre realized he probably didn’t make much sense but somehow it felt just like what he needed to say, how he felt. Confused, desperate, determined though to do… something. Not let it end like that because no matter what anyone said, no end was exactly that, no end at all.

And he must have done _something_ right because Cosette’s expression softened into a small smile, a little sad, but warm.

“I think you both do,” she said softly and Combeferre swallowed around the lump in his throat.

“Thank y-”

 

“Ferre?”

 

Combeferre froze at the same time his heart started beating frantically remaining the only thing moving, hard against in his chest. He turned around without really giving his body permission. He didn’t even care to notice all the people around Courfeyrac, could just look at his face, perfect and surprised, eyes so, so bright. Combeferre had almost forgotten the colour of his eyes.

“Hey,” he said or maybe he didn’t, his throat felt tight, fighting against smiling, crying at the same time. He couldn’t help smiling though and really, had he ever.

“Hi, you - you’re here, I didn’t know you were here. I mean _here_ here, not in here, in Paris, of course you’re here.” Courfeyrac still looked like he had been hit by a truck, only he probably wouldn’t have smiled then. He smiled, an absent, unconscious thing and Combeferre… Combeferre would take it. He had no idea what he was doing.

“Yeah,” he breathed out. “I didn’t know you were here until yesterday, I thought we could-” He startled when Cosette cleared her throat. Suddenly Combeferre did become aware of all the people around, some of them trying obviously not to look like they were obviously listening. Combeferre coughed, forcing himself to get a grip on himself here. “Well, we can talk later, I mean, you’re busy, you have … a movie to film.”

Courfeyrac blinked and for a long second nothing happened but then he nodded. Before either of them could say anything else, Cosette chimed in, “Yes, yes he is and yes he will. And I’m sure everyone would appreciate getting started on that.” She smiled sweetly and the look on Courfeyrac’s face was that of a scolded child. It was utterly adorable, and Combeferre’s heart seized.

Courfeyrac threw him a last, still confused but warmer smile before he was ushered away by an important looking guy with a headset.

“Would you mind, Monsieur, I still have a couple more questions,” Cosette said loudly.

Everyone looking over at them averted their eyes. A young man looked like he could just stop himself from shrieking when Cosette smiled at him sharply as she tugged Combeferre along by his arm again. He would have been able to relate if he hadn’t felt so much like smiling.

“God help us,” Cosette mumbled under her breath with something that sounded like a laugh. She led Combeferre to an elderly, bald man standing with a lot of fancy looking equipment at the side of the street.

“Here,” she said and nodded at the man who smiled when he saw them, or most likely Cosette because most people looked at Combeferre kind of confused, understandably. “This is Jean, he can give you some headphones. So you can hear the dialogue while waiting.”

Combeferre wondered for a moment if there was anyone on this set not named Jean but then he found himself smiling back at the man who handed him a pair of headphones.

“Here you go.”

“Thank you.”

Apparently pleased, Cosette gave him thumbs-up - which was weirdly adorable because Combeferre was kind of scared of her. She then pulled a shiny looking phone out of her pocket and started talking animatedly, obviously satisfied and unconcerned about Combeferre’s current position. Combeferre couldn’t hear what she said but he thought, he might like her.

 

“We’ll never get this done,” a voice in Combeferre’s ear said and he turned to look down the street where Courfeyrac was standing with a tall, blond man whose small, quivering mustache made his otherwise handsome face look kind of ridiculous.

“Well, we have to. I have a flight scheduled that most likely won’t wait for me,” Combeferre heard Courfeyrac say, a little stiffly.

“Oh really, who doesn’t?” Combeferre didn’t really like the tone of the other man’s voice and from the

Combeferre didn’t really like the tone of the other man’s voice and from the way Courfeyrac’s laugh sounded a little forced, he wasn’t the only one.

“Alright. So I ask you ‘When are you going to tell everyone’,” Courfeyrac changed the subject and looked at his script. “And you’ll say...”

“Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

“Right. And then-”

“Who was the guy you were talking to?” The other man interrupted him. Combeferre tensed. He could almost feel Courfeyrac’s pause.

“Oh…,” Courfeyrac said. Combeferre’s heart stuttered. “Oh, that was nothing, just someone from the past, I was surprised to see him. Weird situation.”

“Ah, so-”

Combeferre took off the headphones. He could only hear his heartbeat in his ears and even though it was there, it sounded shallow.

He had- He had hoped-

Combeferre turned around and gently handed the headphones back to the equipment guy. From the corner of his eye, he could see Cosette still talking on the phone, back turned to them.

“Thank you,” he said again even though it sounded wrong in his ears, everything felt wrong.

“You’re welcome, Monsieur,” the other man smiled. Combeferre nodded.

Then he turned around and walked back down the street where he had come from. He thought the security guy said something to him but he could hear him over the rushing in his ears.

He had hoped - No.

 

 

***

 

 

Courfeyrac was freezing but he was sure that his hands weren’t shaking from the cold. Or _just_ from the cold.

He was standing on the sidewalk, about ten more steps from the bookshop. He stared at the sign dangling over the door with a tiny light illuminating the letters because it was dark already, dark early in the winter. He just… he just wanted to keep walking but he felt frozen in place.

 

“Are you going to keep standing here or are you going to go inside at one point?”

 

“Jesus!” Courfeyrac shrieked and nearly fell over in his haste to jump to the side at the sudden voice next to him. His heart hammered in his chest.

Montparnasse stepped out of the shadow of the house entrance and didn’t look like he cared a whole lot about Courfeyrac’s well-being. He glanced at the sign over the bookshop with something like wistfulness, Courfeyrac didn’t really know, he didn’t know how emotions looked on Montparnasse’s face.

“Are you?” he asked and Montparnasse turned to look at him, calculating. Then he shrugged, and didn’t look like he was planning on moving at all.

Somehow it made Courfeyrac gather all of the confidence and determination he had felt earlier, before freezing on the sidewalk and also he didn’t really feel like standing on an empty sidewalk in the dark with Montparnasse was the best idea.

Courfeyrac powered through the last steps to the door and opened it before he could think of reasons not to.

 

The little wind chime rang; Combeferre and Jehan looked up at the same time.

 

Combeferre stopped in his movements. Courfeyrac couldn’t look away from him. He didn’t know how he went so long without looking at him.

Jehan coughed.

“Right. I’m just going to see what Parnasse is doing out there, I’m taking fifteen.” And they grabbed their coat from behind the counter which startled Combeferre into movement. He blinked slowly.

“We’re closing in five minutes.”

“Exactly.” Jehan clapped Combeferre’s back. “Save me ten for tomorrow morning.” They smiled brilliantly and then squeezed past Courfeyrac. The door fell closed and the wind chime rang.

Courfeyrac looked at Combeferre and just… took a moment to really, really look at him.

“Hi,” Courfeyrac said and maybe it sounded awkward, or maybe awed. He had only gotten a quick glimpse on Combeferre earlier, not enough time. He looked good, so good, but tired, a little worn around the edges and Courfeyrac… he had missed him, god, he could admit that much now even if he had never let himself think about it.

“Hey,” Combeferre said too and coughed a little. He didn’t say anything else.

Courfeyrac swallowed around the tightness of his throat. “You disappeared,” he couldn’t help but say, “Earlier.”

Combeferre looked at him with wide, wide eyes. “Yes, I’m- I’m sorry.”

And God, why did it feel this awkward, Courfeyrac didn’t want it to feel like this, he just wanted…

He cleared his throat.

“How have you been?” Great, because that wouldn’t sound awkward at all.

“Good,” Combeferre said, too quickly. “Good, yes. And you?” He looked back down at this, at his hands on the counter. Courfeyrac couldn’t take his eyes off him.

“Well, we’ve been wrapping up filming here, it’s been exhausting.” He tried to smile a little but couldn’t. It was just - Combeferre had come to the set, to _him_ and if he could be brave like that then… Courfeyrac could be too.

“But I’m glad to be here.”

Combeferre’s eyes snapped up.

Courfeyrac knew they were both aware he wasn’t talking about Paris. Combeferre didn’t say anything so Courfeyrac took a deep breath.

“Because the thing is… I’m sorry.” It felt like a weight lifted off his chest because he hadn’t told anyone, not Marius, not Cosette, not Enjolras how terribly, terribly sorry he had been, for Combeferre, for himself too. But he didn’t know how to say all that so he concentrated on what he had been thinking of saying before coming to the bookshop.

“I’m sorry for not talking to you, and for not calling you. I didn’t know if you would have wanted me to, with what happened.”

“I would have,” Combeferre said quietly.

Before Courfeyrac could let the words sink in, the magnitude of the words, Combeferre continued, haltingly and slowly but he continued.

“But… listen.” He looked like he was forcing himself to look up, look at Courfeyrac and Courfeyrac’s heart sank like a stone, hard, fast, inevitable. “I’m… I like to think I am a fairly… reasonable person and I- I just, I know my feelings and I know I couldn’t stand it. To be hurt again and- and to be cast aside and diminished like that-”

“Diminished? What are you talking about?” Courfeyrac choked out.

Combeferre’s face locked up. Courfeyrac had tried so hard to forget that expression. “What about earlier?” The other man’s voice was not betraying any emotion, only a slight tremble, making clear they were there, not which. “When you were talking to the blond guy and you-”

“Théodule? That asshole? I’m sorry I don’t want to share my life story with every co-star I can’t stand.”

Combeferre seemed to deflate at that, lost some of the tension in his shoulders but not in a way that made Courfeyrac feel any better, not at all.

“It’s not,” Combeferre started and he looked down, finally. Courfeyrac didn’t know if he should be grateful, maybe. Because he didn’t know if he wanted anyone to see his face. “I just couldn’t stand it again, I _can't,_ not with you everywhere, on posters and movies and everywhere and I’d be...”

Left, Courfeyrac filled the gap. Left, alone, inconsolable. All that Courfeyrac felt right then.

Combeferre looked at his hands and somehow, that made it easier for Courfeyrac to bear. Because if this was Combeferre’S choice then there was nothing he could do but accept it, maybe not fully, immediately but he could do his best, if that was what Combeferre wanted.

“Alright. I understand,” Courfeyrac said, whispered more because it felt like all he could do at that point. He turned around, to the closed door and he - he couldn’t.

He knew he couldn’t make Combeferre change his mind, he knew he had to accept it, but he couldn’t just let it go again like that, without Combeferre even _looking_ at him.

 

Courfeyrac turned around and Combeferre’s eyes flew up, wide and surprised, and Courfeyrac took a step forward, just enough to make him look and not fall apart at the same time.

 

“I understand but you - you listen, too, alright. What you see is… the mess, the obstacles and that’s… that’s not all I am. The fame and the media and whatever you think. I’m also just - I’m just a boy, alright? Standing in front of another boy. Asking him for a chance to be together.”

Courfeyrac’s voice was ringing in his ears, in the quiet of the bookshop. If he had felt relieved earlier, it was nothing against this, just feeling, open and honest and hurt.

 

He counted to three, four, five.

 

When Combeferre didn’t say anything, Courfeyrac turned around and left, the sound of the wind chime cutting off as the door fell shut behind him.

 

***

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "In case of doubt, everyone is named Jean." ~Anchient Proverb~  
> Also, alternative chapter title: Ooops-I-thought-angst-was-over-haha-apparently-NOT-WHAT-AM-I-DOING


	11. Chapter XI.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein some people finally reveal some not so nice, nice, surprising and not so surprising truths in dramatic, not so dramatic, and very dramatic fashion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won’t even start rambling about how sorry I am for taking ages because you probably just want to read this right now, so! Off you go!! Enjoy!! ♥

***

 

 

“I did the right thing,” Combeferre said. “... right?”

 

There were a couple of agreeing yeah’s and sure’s and mmh’s from the assembled people in the coffee shop that had all gathered around Combeferre at one table in the back. Feuilly had kept him supplied with hot chocolate – even though it was still what counted as morning which would have probably deserved some coffee but Combeferre wasn’t going to complain – while he had explained what had happened the evening before.

 

He didn’t know who was working the counter because Feuilly, Bahorel, Enjolras, Grantaire and Jehan were all busy sitting around him with something far too close to pity in their eyes.

 

“The right thing?” Montparnasse repeated, suddenly appearing next to the table. He was holding a slice of apple pie on a plate in his hand for no apparent reason. “No, you didn’t.”

 

Combeferre was pretty sure that if looks could have killed, he would have been struck dead by Montparnasse’s glare.

 

“What?”

 

Montparnasse’s eyes narrowed. “No,” he said slowly, with an expression as if Combeferre was a child that had annoyed the hell out of him and it was taking every ounce of self-control not to scream. His expression was a mixture of a lot of emotions at once, for Montparnasse. Which was actually scarier than the death glare. “You did  _not_ do the right thing, are you out of your mind?”

 

Combeferre couldn’t help but blink at him stupidly. “What?”

 

Montparnasse took a deep breath.

 

“Are. You. Out. Of. Your.  _Mind_?!” he spat out which finally made Combeferre gather enough brain cells together to reply.

 

“Hey! No. I’m pretty ... mind... ful.”

 

Or so he had thought.

 

Montparnasse rolled his eyes, Combeferre wondered how they didn’t get stuck. Practice probably. “No.  _Clearly_ , you’re an idiot.”

 

Before Combeferre could open his mouth to even try and respond, Montparnasse continued, not giving him an opportunity to like... bristle at that. At least a little.

 

“And honestly, are you wasting one, just  _one_ thought here on  _anyone_  but yourself?”

That at least was definitely unfair, of course Combeferre wasn’t just thinking about himself, it wasn’t just about him, this whole thing, not just his relationship and even if it was painful to end it, to really end it, it was better like that for everyone involved. For Courfeyrac. It was better this better this way, definitely. Hopefully.

 

“Excuse me?” Combeferre tried to somehow get a word in but Montparnasse just straight up ignored his attempt at an actual two-party conversation.

 

“You know, I’ve been planning what to wear for the inevitable case of me meeting Meryl Streep for ages, since it was obvious you were going to end up with a movie star, but no. You had to go and fucking ruin it.” He set the plate with pie onto the table with so much force that Combeferre flinched.

 

“Since it... when was that supposed to be?” Somehow that was what Combeferre’s brain apparently chose to focus on.

 

Montparnasse looked like he was mentally already committing murder. “When he showed up in your bookshop?” he asked sarcastically and added, “Idiot,” for good measure.

 

“That was the first time we met!”

 

“ _And?_ ”

 

“It...,” Combeferre started, then stopped.

 

He hadn’t thought it was possible back then to even see Courfeyrac again, not really. He had wished, hoped, dreamed maybe but not actually thought so. After, when they had gotten to know each other more, maybe then he had thought, there might have been the possibility of something. Something more. He couldn’t even try to think about how Montparnasse could have been convinced from the start that Combeferre and Courfeyrac were... made for each other.

 

Love at the first sight wasn’t something that happened to people like him, not to people with lives like Combeferre’s. Simple lives. Not in a bad way, just... simple.

 

“It was the first time we met,” he finished weakly.

 

Montparnasse raised a perfectly unimpressed eyebrow. “Yeah,” he said. “And he looked at you like you were the sun in the sky or some shit and boy, you think you were better than that? Fuck what he does to earn money, if he’s a garbage man or a lawyer or a fucking movie star.  _You_ are an idiot. For letting that be more important than when he looks at you like that.”

 

Combeferre was speechless.

 

His throat felt dry and he only realised after a while that the reason was his mouth hanging open.

 

It wasn’t… he had never thought that the problem was thinking Courfeyrac didn't like him enough. Or so he would have said, had someone asked him. Combeferre had never thought of himself as having a low self-esteem, not really. At least consciously. But it was like a revelation, Montparnasse saying that, hearing that Courfeyrac had looked at him just like Combeferre looked back, not just thinking, hoping for the wonderful case that he might feel the same. That what they had wasn't just wishful thinking, right there in front of him to reach for. He didn't think he had ever allowed to himself to even consider that maybe he already  _had_.

 

And… thinking back to Courfeyrac in the bookshop, the first time and that last time, and all the moments in between, Combeferre realized that he had been stupid. He had been convinced, so convinced, that he didn't care that Courfeyrac was some big shot movie star and he didn't, when it came to the way he smiled, the way he laughed and just… was. But he had been stupid to think, he didn't let it affect him, deep down, that he had never really, fully let himself just be with him even when Combeferre thought so. While Courfeyrac did. Fully and unconditionally.

 

 

Goddammit.

 

 

Combeferre buried his face in his hands.

 

“I made the worst mistake of my life, didn’t I?”

 

After several minutes of silence, he looked up only to find a suspiciously uncomfortable looking group of people looking at either the table or a spot somewhere in the direction of Combeferre’s shoulder.

 

“Oh my God, you’re all totally thinking I did, don’t you?”

 

Enjolras was the first one who moved, his jaw twitching and Combeferre groaned, hiding his face in his hands again.

 

“Oh my God.”

 

He  _was_ an idiot. Oh God.

 

“It was your decision,” Feuilly said, mostly soft, only a little bit defensive. “We thought we should maybe be sensible.”

 

“Overrated,” Montparnasse drawled lazily. The only reason he didn’t look completely like someone done with the entire conversation, was the way the left corner of his mouth was curled up into half of a smug smile.

 

Bahorel snorted. “Oh, shut the fuck up, man, everyone knows you’re a Nicolas Sparks reading sap, just fucking stand up for it.”

 

The other man froze before glaring at Bahorel with the same death stare that Combeferre had been on the receiving end of earlier.

 

A small, quiet laugh sounded from Combeferre’s side. Jehan was smiling, a small, gentle thing, so unbelievably fond, it was difficult to look at, something that seemed too personal for more than two people. “He has a point,” Jehan said, softly and amused.

 

Montparnasse’s cheeks turned a tender shade of red. He looked at Jehan, Jehan looked back. Combeferre didn’t know what it was, just in the way they looked at one another, that made Montparnasse eyes narrow, not in an unkind way, only determined.

 

“Go out with me,” he said.

 

Jehan’s answering smile was blinding. “I thought you’d never ask.”

 

Combeferre had kind of thought the same, to be honest.

 

If he hadn’t already been kind of occupied with revelations about his own relationship, he might have felt a little mind-blown.

 

“I want to get married,” Enjolras said.

 

Scratch that, Combeferre had no idea what was going on anymore.

Someone spit out their coffee.

 

“What?” The other man shrugged defensively. “Everyone was already sharing their feelings, so.”

 

“To who?” Grantaire choked out, he sounded strangled.

 

“Whom,” Feuilly corrected absentmindedly, he looked mostly as taken aback as everyone else.

 

Enjolras ignored him and just looked at Grantaire. A small frown appeared between his eyebrows, tense. “What do you mean?” he said and Combeferre could hear a hint of nervousness in Enjolras's tone. He wasn't used to it, even though he had known Enjolras for ages, that was how few he has heard him sounding nervous. “To... you? I mean, not like, right now this moment, but I mean.... unless... you don’t want to?”

 

Grantaire stared at Enjolras, looking completely and utterly gobsmacked.

 

“What? Of course I want to, what the fuck? I'd just never think you’d... I mean we aren’t even like… I thought you just... oh my God.” Grantaire’s eyes widened almost comically, wide, blue and green. They seemed to be too big for his face suddenly, full of emotion.

“We’re dating,” he said, quietly.

 

Enjolras looked like he couldn't decide whether to keep frowning or let the smile on his face take over, so it ended up a mixture between the two, a happy, confused expression that made him look like the boy Combeferre had known for so long.

 

“I feel like there’s been a grave misunderstanding,” he said.

 

Grantaire nodded, speechless apparently. He didn't even seem to register his own smile, too focused on Enjolras.

 

Combeferre felt a headache rising in his temples.

 

“Right,” he said because, what else was he supposed to say then, that was a talk that needed a lot more time and an attention span that he could muster up in that moment.

 

“We’re going to discuss this,” he said, indicating the entity of the table. Enjolras looked at least a little sheepish but not much because he was too busy smiling at Grantaire.  Combeferre cleared his throat. “At some point in the near future. But now I kind of need to…,” he got up a little awkwardly nudged between stairs in the corner of the room.

 

“Woo. Go get your man!” Bahorel shouted, way too loud for a supposedly calm morning hour. It was somehow exactly the right thing to say however, a little ridiculous, a lot actually.

 

Combeferre felt his cheeks getting warm.

 

“Yeah. Um. That.”

 

He was going to do just that, he had to try, and he was going to. When he walked, practically ran, out of the coffee shop, he only heard Bahorel asking, “Hey, is anybody eating the pie or what was that for?”

 

“Drama,” Montparnasse said, deadpan.

 

Combeferre didn't think he had ever felt more grateful for all of them.

 

 

***

 

 

It turned out not to be all that difficult to figure out in which hotel a famous movie star was staying when coming to Paris. Google was your friend. Combeferre thought even if he had just randomly ran up and down in front of the nicest hotels in the city, and there were a lot of those, he would have figured out which one it was just by the sheer amount of people standing in front of the entrance.

 

Which might be a little bit of an obstacle but Combeferre wasn’t anything but determined here. A little desperate maybe as well but he supposed that was rather helpful in his case then.

 

From experience, Combeferre knew that any hotel had to have a back entrance somewhere, so the side street it was. Only a few people were standing in front of the large gate and well, Combeferre hadn’t exactly come here with a plan but he could improvise. He supposed.

 

One of the people, a woman with a riot of ringlets and what looked like a press pass looped around her neck turned to look at Combeferre when he came closer and somehow, she seemed familiar.

 

At least he must seem familiar to her because as soon as she looked at him, her eyes narrowed.

 

“What are you doing here?” she said and that was when Combeferre recognized her as the reporter that had been there on the kind of half disastrous day when Courfeyrac had taken him to his room at the other hotel, the last time he had been in Paris.

 

Alright, improvising.

 

“I’m here with-”

 

“Don’t even try, honey, I know who you are,” she cut him off immediately.

 

One of the guys next to her, a small, dark-haired one with an adorably confused expression on his face asked, “Who is he again?”

 

“Oh!” the other one, much taller, much less hair, exclaimed. “Oh, you’re… you’re the guy!” He grinned at Combeferre which he preferred to the rather ice-cold glare of the woman. “I’m Bossuet and this is Joly and Musichetta. You’re Courfeyrac’s guy, Combeferre, right?”

 

“I… I mean, I’m Combeferre,” Combeferre said slowly, tense. He ignored the swooping feeling in his stomach at being called  _Courfeyrac’s_  … anything, really “You’re reporters?”

 

The woman, Musichetta, rolled her eyes. “Yeah, but right now, what matters is that we’re Courfeyrac’s friends and  _you_ better have a damn good reason to be here.”

 

She kind of looked like she would have murdered him without hesitation given the right motivation. He didn’t know if that was the reason why it was easier to talk, having to.

 

“I’m an idiot,” Combeferre started because well, that was kind of the main problem here. Musichetta looked at him, an eyebrow raised in a silent but undeniable request to continue. He took a deep breath. “I made a huge mistake, I know that. Now. I was scared of getting hurt and it made me pull back and doubt when I should have trusted my feelings and, and his.” Combeferre looked down when his voice cracked a little on the last word. “I was stupid.”

 

“Hey,” Joly, the smaller of the two men, said, stern but his smile was soft. “It’s not stupid. Being scared.” He sounded like he believed it and most importantly he sounded like he believed _Combeferre_.

 

Musichetta’s expression wasn’t as openly encouraging as Joly’s but Combeferre considered anything not murderous an improvement. When she spoke, her voice was firm but not hostile anymore. “You  _have_ to know that you want this. Truly. You can’t do this to him again.”

 

Combeferre didn’t think there was anything he wanted  _less_  in the world. “I know,” he said. “And I won’t. I can’t. I… I-,” he stumbled over the words that he knew were true but it still hit Combeferre like a brick how much he cared about Courfeyrac, how deeply. How unquestionably in love he was and had been even though he hadn’t permitted himself to be.

 

“Don’t,” Musichetta said, softly this time. “Don’t tell someone else first.”

 

Combeferre couldn’t help but smile at her, relieved and grateful, and she smiled back for the first time. 

“Okay, that’s just really beautiful, man,” Bossuet said. When Combeferre looked at him, he was unabashedly rubbing a hand across his eyes. Musichetta rolled her eyes in a way that was mainly just fond. Then she took the press pass around her neck and held it out to Combeferre.

 

“Press conference starts in about five minutes, if you hurry you might get to him before that. I’ll let Cosette know to let you in.”

 

Combeferre didn’t want to wince at the thought that Cosette was probably even less keen on him in that moment than Musichetta had been at first.

 

However, Musichetta seemed pretty good at reading his thoughts so or maybe he just didn’t really bother holding himself back anymore.

 

“Don’t worry, I’ll tell her you’re not public enemy No. 1 anymore.” For some reason, she smiled enough for Combeferre not to be discouraged by that. Not very much at least. “And now stop standing around here and get in there.”

 

Combeferre took the press pass and it felt heavy in his hand, bringing him back to earth.

 

“Thank you,” he said sincerely.

 

Musichetta shoved him towards the gate while Joly and Bossuet gave him thumbs up.

 

 

***

 

 

Musichetta must have been very good and more importantly very quick at convincing Cosette to set things in motion for Combeferre to get inside the room where the press conference was about to start.

 

He made his way through the seemingly thousand corridors of the hotel to the front hall where a slightly confused but otherwise silent security person took one look at Combeferre’s press pass and then wordlessly lead him to a room that was big enough to hold a full-blown wedding reception.

 

The elegant flower arrangements along the walls kind of made the comparison inevitable.

 

There were also about a hundred people with cameras, microphones and whatnot sitting in neatly placed rows of chairs, most of them in suits or fancy dresses.

 

Combeferre felt like every step he took forward sucked a little more air out of his lungs.

 

Naturally, he was lead to the very front row because that was, apparently, his life.

 

 

Oh God, he was going to be sick.

 

 

A very dapper looking lady in the chair next to him looked Combeferre up and down once, taxingly and then smiled at him looking like a weird approximation of a catfish.

 

“Oh, hello,” she said, graciously like she had put some thought into deciding to address him. “I didn’t know  _Le Monde_  had a new writer for  _cinéma._ ”

 

Combeferre nearly choked on the bit of air that he felt like was still around. “Uhm. I mean. Yes, no, I’m new. Very.”

 

She looked like he was about to say something else, Combeferre didn’t really want to know what, so he was relieved when another door at the front of the room opened.

 

The relief lasted for about a second until Cosette, with pointed heels that could have probably functioned as a murder weapon, stepped through the door, closely followed by Courfeyrac.

 

Combeferre felt all that was left of his composure go down the drain.

 

Courfeyrac looked beautiful, handsome, like he always did, always would be but there was also a slump to his shoulders that seemed completely wrong. His smile was off but Combeferre didn’t know if anyone else could tell. He could only tell because he had spent hours looking at Courfeyrac’s smile and even more hours thinking about it.

 

The other man didn’t notice Combeferre but Cosette’s eyes narrowed in on him immediately.

 

Combeferre had expected her to look tense, hostile but she just looked at him, raised an eyebrow – and it reminded him of Grantaire a lot, exasperated, a little judging but fond always – and then started welcoming the crowd.

 

He didn’t hear a word she said because he couldn’t help staring at Courfeyrac sitting down at the table that had been put up at the front of the room. Courfeyrac was looking straight ahead, expressionless except for the smile plastered on his face.

 

Only when he started speaking, Combeferre was ripped back into the here and now. 

“It was great, a little stressful because we didn’t have a whole lot of time but the whole team worked hard and helped getting everything done, perfectly so, it was great.”

 

 

Combeferre was pretty sure he had missed the first question.

He probably wouldn’t really cut it as a journalist either, he thought a little hysterically. He felt a little hysteric.

 

Cosette glanced at him but his face must have shown his panic because she pointed at someone further back in the crowd.

 

“How long will you be staying in Paris?” A very steady sounding person asked.

 

Courfeyrac’s smile turned a shade of wrong apologetic.

 

“I’m afraid I’ll leave again right away, I’m sorry about that myself, I always enjoy being here.” He didn’t say anything else. Combeferre couldn’t see the faces behind him but the frown edging itself onto the surprisingly wrinkle-free forehead of the lady next to him was enough to know that the room was slightly taken aback by the short answer.

 

Cosette nodded at another person.

 

“The last time you were here, there have been some pictures circulating of you and a young man.  What influence does this have on your further stays in the city?”

 

Courfeyrac’s expression didn’t change but if Combeferre were a more impulsive person – and maybe he should reconsider that evaluation of himself since he was basically crashing a press conference to confess his love or something, almost – he would have probably jumped up and tried to wring that person’s neck. Cosette looked like she was considering something along the same lines but Courfeyrac slightly raised his hands to stop her from interfering.

 

“There’s nothing to speculate about, he’s a friend,” he said calmly but then Combeferre could practically hear the tension bleeding into his voice as he tried to sound steady. “I think we are still friends.”

 

It would have broken Combeferre’s heart if he had believed less. In Courfeyrac, in himself, in them in the end.

 

His hand practically rose on its own violation but maybe also because he had enough of the panic and the feeling of being scared in his chest. He stood up.

 

Maybe, most likely, because he thought that he didn’t want Courfeyrac to sound like that again, ever.

 

It felt like all eyes in the room narrowed in on him but Combeferre only glanced at Cosette nodding in his direction before looking at Courfeyrac whose eyes widened.

 

Combeferre cleared his throat. “Would there – I mean, is there any chance you could be… more than that?” His voice sounded faint in his own ears but God, he didn’t care.

 

He didn’t know how many seconds passed in which Courfeyrac blinked frenetically before eventually, after what felt like an eternity, he swallowed, hard. Combeferre could see his jaw clench and unclench a couple of times before he answered. 

 

“I thought so,” he said quietly and Combeferre didn’t know why he had thought standing up was a good idea because he suddenly felt weak on his legs in relief. “But… I was assured there was not.”

 

“And what if that young man was… a complete idiot?” Combeferre blurted out. Courfeyrac was still looking at him and just that made him smile, helplessly. “Who’s been afraid but not… not because of you but because he… he couldn’t believe that he might have actually been that incredibly,  _stupidly_ lucky and that scared him more than anything else. Because of how much he felt, and how much he wanted and how much he-,” Combeferre stopped because there were still a couple of dozen other people in the room even though it could as well have been just him and Courfeyrac right then.

 

“Would you… maybe… reconsider, then?”

 

He didn’t have to wait this time, not a second. He didn’t know if he had been able to bear it otherwise but the moment he was done, having said everything he could to lay his heart out in the open, Courfeyrac’s face lightened up with the most wide, most real, happiest smile that Combeferre could have dreamed of.

 

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I would.”

 

And Combeferre couldn’t remember ever hearing, reading words more beautiful than that by any person he knew or in any of the thousands of books he had held in his hands.  

 

Cosette pointed at a person in the crowd. “Would you mind asking your question again,

Monsieur?”

 

“How... How long will you be staying in Paris?” the now not very steady sounding voice asked again. 

Combeferre couldn’t take his eyes off him when Courfeyrac smiled. 

 

“Indefinitely.”

 

 

***

 

 

It took a couple more second for the first click of a camera to go off, the first flash and then more and more until the room was a sea of lights. 

Combeferre couldn’t have cared less. He was looking at Courfeyrac and Courfeyrac was smiling back at him and if the entire world was going to see Combeferre’s face like that, happy and full of joy and love that he wasn’t going to hold back anymore, not ever, well.

 

He was okay with that.

 

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS!! This is it!! (No, it is not, I'm lying, there will be an epilogue but!! This!!) 
> 
> (Also Montparnasse's favourite movie of all time is The Devil Wears Prada and I will die on that hill.)


	12. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein everyone is happy. (Finally.)
> 
>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative Chapter Title: Soft boys are soft.

 

 

 

***

 

 

It was snowing outside, the high hotel windows overlooking Paris stretching out quietly to the horizon, gently washed out by clear white.

 

 

Courfeyrac felt warm, deep down to his heart, with his head pillowed on Combeferre’s chest, Combeferre’s fingers tracing patterns aimlessly and softly across Courfeyrac’s shoulders, back and rips. He didn’t seem to be able to keep his fingers still but there was no restlessness in the moment, no hurry or urgency.

 

“What made you change your mind?” Courfeyrac asked quietly into Combeferre’s collarbone, right next to the blooming hickey on his skin.   
  
Combeferre’s hand wandered from Courfeyrac’s shoulder to his hair, gently tangling with the curls at the back of his neck.

  
Courfeyrac felt Combeferre sigh, his chest rising and falling as he let out a breath and a laugh. “I don’t think I changed my mind,” he said. He sounded thoughtful but firm and Courfeyrac loved the sound of his voice. “I just… did what I was too afraid to do before.”

 

“Hmm,” Courfeyrac hummed, encouraging Combeferre to continue because he sounded a little sheepish like it hadn’t been _just_ that.

 

Sure enough, Combeferre laughed again, a soft and gentle sound that Courfeyrac loved too. So much.

  
“And my friends did knock some sense into me.”

 

Courfeyrac grinned and lifted his head to look at Combeferre. He was pretty sure the other man’s cheeks would be warm if Courfeyrac touched his face. But he was too comfortable to move a lot and content with simply knowing that and looking at Combeferre’s smile.

 

“Of course,” he said and Combeferre huffed a little but didn’t contradict him.

“I mean,” Courfeyrac said, “That’s good, I’m happy. I feel like I should send them a gift basket or something, they have really nice muffins here.”

 

Combeferre didn’t take his hands off Courfeyrac to bury his face in them even though he looked like he was considering it. Not really, though.

  
“Literally all of my friends already love you,” he said. The way he said the last two words made Courfeyrac remember I love you’s pressed into skin over rapid heartbeats and he felt like he could have burst with happiness.

 

“Same,” he grinned. He didn’t know how long he had been smiling for. He didn’t feel like stopping. “Even though you gave Cosette a whole lot of work to do.”

 

Courfeyrac loved Combeferre’s bashful expression, the way his lashes reached out to caress his cheeks as he looked down and smiled.

 

“I admit, that might have been… a little dramatic.”

 

“Just a bit.”

Courfeyrac leaned to kiss the laugh from Combeferre’s lips. Their mouths moved together, languidly and unhurried and Courfeyrac was in love with the way they fit together so naturally and easily, the way it made him believe that they would be alright even with the things that were not going to be that easy.

 

Combeferre’s lips were so soft and Courfeyrac loved him.

 

He settled back to rest his head under Combeferre’s chin and just breathed him in as Combeferre’s fingers resumed tracing paths across Courfeyrac’s skin.   
  
After a moment, they stilled again resting at Courfeyrac’s spine.

 

“Speaking of dramatic...,” Combeferre started and Courfeyrac could feel his voice against his ear. “I kind of… owe someone for, you know.”

 

Courfeyrac grinned at Combeferre’s exasperated, fond, stupidly beautiful sigh.

 

“Do you happen to know Meryl Streep?”

 

 

***

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading, commenting and being patient. ♥♥♥ 
> 
> Now. This is it.
> 
> (Well, maybe. There might be a rough idea (a long time ahead in a galaxy far, far away) of an Enjoltaire companion piece about more pining idiots not simultaneously realizing they're dating because who doesn't love some good old comedy of misunderstandings.)

**Author's Note:**

> You're always welcome to come by and be emotional about Courferre with me on [tumblr](http://vintage-jehan.tumblr.com/).


End file.
